Hunter's Quarterly : The Winchesters 1984:2005
by BlackIceWitch
Summary: Pre-series sequel to Journey Into Darkness (currently under revision). John Winchester's life was shattered when his family was attacked by an evil he could not have imagined. Mourning his wife and terrified for his sons, he hunts for the things in the dark, knowing that one day, he will learn enough to take his revenge for what he lost. No slash. No spoilers.
1. Chapter 1 Sea of Waking Dreams

**Chapter 1 Sea of Waking Dreams**

**WARNING! **This story breaks canon at every point where the canon in the show is either unrealistic, implausible or psychological impossible. If John Winchester had, as written, dragged his two young sons up searching for something he found NO EVIDENCE of in 22 years, he would be an asshole and an idiot. Since I like John, that piece of "canon" has been broken. No one, no matter what the circumstances, would search without a single lead or shred of proof for 22 years while trying to raise two very young sons. Sorry, Kripke but that was a major fail.

Likewise, his sons being kept in the dark on old hunting buddies was another fail for there was no reason whatsoever that John would introduce them to some but not to others. Within the course of the following story I hope that these logic holes are filled, but be aware that I have ignored - nay, jumped up and down on - some of the canon because it was obviously unthought out and presented inconsistencies within the seasons for that very reason.

* * *

"_Well, she may wander into my dreams. Wouldn't it be nice, if I could call her by name, and pretend we've met before? I've waited a long time for such a lady."_

_~ Etienne Navarre, Ladyhawke_

* * *

_**1984. Blackwater, North Dakota**_

John rubbed his eyes. They felt grainy and too big for the sockets, and he knew he was going to have to call it a night soon. The table in front of him was covered with notes, newspapers and a slim manila folder filled with copies of police reports and coroner's reports. None of it made much sense.

He leaned back in the chair, letting his head tip back, closing his eyes. Against the darkness of his closed lids, the images from the police files unrolled. The victims had nothing in common, nothing he could discern, at any rate. Ages ranged from a fifteen year old boy to a seventy year old woman. Locations were all over the place too. Nothing linked them. They'd even been found randomly, some the next day, one of them hadn't been found for several weeks, making identification a real bitch. The coroner's assistant had turned slightly green as the memory of that body had returned.

They were all killed by the same thing, that he was sure of. And it was preying on the people in this town. But the bodies were intact, there were no injuries, no trauma – the report stated that they'd all died of heart failure. John shook his head at the axiomatic nature of the call. Everyone died of heart failure, he thought sourly. The heart stopped and then you were dead. There had been no speculation in the report as to what had caused the heart to fail, though. Tox screens were clean, even the later ones when the cops had become more desperate to find out what was going on and had started ordering detailed analyses of the blood and tissue work.

Something, there had to be something he'd missed. His eyes ran over the mess on the table. His journal was useless. Nothing he'd heard or read about covered the situation, the deaths. He pushed the notes aside and opened the folder again, flicking through the papers, letting his eyes wander over each page, looking for a thread, a common thread that would show a pattern.

Blackwater Funeral Home. The name appeared on each report. He frowned. It wasn't unusual, probably not even noteworthy. Small towns couldn't run to a separate coroner's office, the local funeral home was usually the place where the autopsies and tests were conducted. The director of the place was a thin, rather cadaveric-looking man – he fished around in his memory for the name … Elias … Kadrick? The coroner came out from Grand Forks, he knew, guy had complained about how many trips he and his assistant had had to make this year, the travel expenses were screwing up his budget.

Something about the funeral home was nagging at him. He couldn't pin it down but it wouldn't let go. He sighed and closed the folder, gathering up the rest of the papers and tucking them inside it. He'd go and see them again tomorrow. He glanced behind him, through the open bathroom door where his single suit was hanging from the shower rail, hopefully shedding its wrinkles. FBI Special Agent Tom Sabisch would be seeing them tomorrow.

Other than that, it would be night-hunting, trying to catch the creature in the act, and that prospect made his heart accelerate, beating low and loud against his ribs.

In the other room, his boys slept. Sammy was not yet two, Dean almost six. Not knowing what he was facing, what he was hunting, he was loathe to take them out with him, but he feared leaving them alone here even more. Even with the protective circles of salt and iron, he couldn't be sure that they would be safe, would stay safe.

He put the journal on top of the rest of the papers, and turned off the lights, pulling off his clothes as he sat on the edge of the bed. This life was not what he wanted for them. He wanted them to be safe, to be able to have their childhoods, a home. But the crawling itch inside of him, the itch that demanded he find answers, retribution, revenge for Mary's death, would not rest, would not give him rest.

Stretching out on the bed and closing his eyes, he flinched slightly as his imagination played her death out again. Not enough whiskey tonight, he thought wearily, and tried to shut out the images, push them away. The cold voice inside his head that occasionally provided insight, or derided him, or just took strips off him on occasion, gave a sudden hollow laugh. Not enough whiskey in all the world to blunt the edges of that memory, it told him.

* * *

Dean pushed the watery porridge around his bowl unhappily. He watched his father getting dressed from beneath long dark lashes, knowing that the suit meant he and Sammy would be alone for most of the day, left behind to watch TV and take care of themselves. At almost six, he already had a strong sense of independence, and responsibility, and he knew that Dad had to go and do something important, something that the boys couldn't help with, but the day was so long when it was just him and his brother, the hours ticked by so slowly and there was nothing good to watch on TV anyway.

Beside him, Sammy was amusing himself by flipping spoonfuls of porridge from the bowl to the table. Dean caught the motion in the corner of his eye and scowled at his baby brother.

"Stop that!" he whispered fiercely. "Eat your breakfast."

He would have to clean up the mess that Sam had made, and the thought made him madder.

John finished adjusting his tie and looked over to them, noticing the expression on the face of his oldest son. He turned around and walked over to the table.

"I won't be gone long. Just one visit and I'll be back, Dean," he said quietly. "Can you take care of Sammy while I'm gone?"

Dean nodded, bottom lip pushed out a little. "Yes, sir."

"That's my boy." John patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be back in time for lunch. We'll have something good, okay?"

The bottom lip was sucked in. "Pizza?"

John smiled. "If that's what you want, sure." He tousled Sam's hair as he passed. "Lock the door; don't answer it if anyone knocks. Don't answer the phone. If it's me, I'll ring once and hang up, then ring back, okay? Keep the TV on low, alright?"

Dean looked up and nodded. He knew what he had to do.

"All right. I'll be back soon, and we'll have pizza for lunch." John walked to the door of the room, patting his pockets as he went; keys, wallet, gun. All there.

Dean looked at Sammy as the door closed behind him, and sighed. There were morning cartoon shows on the TV, they could watch those for a while. Then play with the toys until lunchtime. He thought about the pizza – he would get one with lots of sausage this time. Not just the baby cheese one. He wasn't a baby anymore.

* * *

John pulled the badge from the inner pocket of his jacket, holding it out for the man to see. It was a beautiful piece of forgery, expensive but worth it.

Elias Kadrick looked at it carefully and nodded, stepping back and gesturing to the quiet office behind him.

"What can I do for the FBI, Agent Sabisch?" The man's voice was strange, high and with a faint buzz to it, as if his throat or vocal cords had been injured at some time.

"I'd like to see the home's records on each of the victims, Mr Kadrick. You buried them all?"

Kadrick inclined his head slightly. "We organised the funerals, yes. No other funeral facility in town."

The office was spacious and sombrely decorated in dark wood panelling, the carpet thick and soft underfoot. A massive desk took up the space in front of the elegant Georgian windows, and two comfortable chairs stood in front of it. Kadrick gestured to the chairs as he walked behind the desk. John sat in the one closest, his eyes narrowing as the light from the windows shone from behind Kadrick, hiding the expression of the man seated opposite him. He could just make out the man's eyes, seeing a strange glint in them, as if a light had flashed behind him. He glanced over his shoulder but there was nothing there.

"What are you looking for?" Kadrick said, fingers steepled in front of him as he leaned forward on the desk.

"I'm not sure. Some connection, hopefully." John looked around the office. Shelving, built-ins of the same dark wood as the panelling, held a sizeable collection of books along one wall. On the other side of the room, a neat row of old fashioned timber filing cabinets presumably held the business records for the home.

A fly buzzed in the silence, batting against the glass panes of the window.

"Well, I'm certainly happy to help with the investigation," Kadrick said briskly, rising from his chair and walking over to the filing cabinets. "The police don't seem to have any new leads, and while I can't deny it's been good for business, such events are unsettling in a small town. A lot of people are scared."

John nodded, watching him extract a dozen files from the various drawers. "I'd like to take these with me, if you don't mind. I'll sign for them, of course."

Kadrick shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I cannot allow that. These records must stay on the premises. I'd never be able to forgive myself if a family needed some piece of information and their file was missing."

He passed the folders to John. "Please, take your time, you may have the use of this office for as long as you need."

John glanced at his watch and sighed. "Thank you Mr Kadrick, I'll be out as quickly as possible."

Dean would be disappointed, he thought, setting the folders on the desk and opening the first one. But he'd make it up to him; they could have pizza for dinner, go and sit down in a restaurant. He made a mental note to ring the motel room in an hour, to let him know.

* * *

It was three hours later that he closed the last file and leaned back in the chair, the pad beside him covered in scrawled notes. He looked at his watch and swore. Two o'clock. He tucked the pad back into his jacket and left the pile of folders on the desk.

Several flies were now buzzing against the window. He looked at them curiously. It was August, and he was in a funeral home, but he would have thought the building would be better protected against the influx of insects than that. As he watched, several more flies crawled from a small hole in the architrave of the window to join those against the glass.

The hall was empty when he left the office. He hesitated for a moment, listening, but he couldn't hear any sounds that might have indicated where Kadrick was. A faint scent came to him as he opened the front door and the air moved out of the building, past him. Overlaid by the smells by the chemicals used in embalming, he nevertheless recognised the odour of decay, of decomposition. It was a funeral home, he thought impatiently. He shrugged and looked at the tight seals around the timber door, and the metal mesh screen door that lay beyond it. Well, they weren't getting in that way, he thought absently, closing both behind him and walking down to the black car that was parked against the kerb.

* * *

Dean looked up as he heard the key in the lock. He'd been swinging between fear and anger since both hands of the clock had touched the twelve. That was lunch time. And Dad hadn't returned. When the small hand finally reached the number one, he'd become alarmed, snapping at Sammy for knocking over his block tower, unsure of what he should do. He'd made his brother a sandwich, cutting off the crusts as his mom had done for him. Sammy had decimated the soft bread and it had taken a long time to clean up all the crumbs.

"Hey kiddo, sorry I'm late." John walked into the room, pulling the tie from around his neck, and shucking his jacket onto the bed.

Dean kept his eyes on his soldiers. John looked down and crouched down beside him.

"We'll have pizza for dinner, Dean," he said, reaching out to touch his son's hair. Dean pulled away slightly.

John looked at the boy's profile. The bottom lip was out again. "Sometimes things don't go to plan, Dean. I'm sorry I didn't get back when I said I would, but I had to do something important."

The little boy sat as still as a statue. John sighed. "Come on, stop sulking." He straightened up, and walked to the kitchenette. "Did you make Sammy some lunch?"

"Yes, sir." The words were little more than a whisper.

"Good. Where is he?" John glanced around the bare living room.

"Having a nap."

"Can you play quietly in the room, Dean? I have some work I need to get done here."

Dean nodded again, and got to his feet, gathering his soldiers into his hands. He walked into the other room, his head down, and closed the door quietly behind him.

_Goddammit. _

John watched him go, his emotions churning. He needed to find a better way to do this, or he was going to do irreparable damage to his sons. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face, feeling the conflicting pull between getting on with the work he needed to do, and the knowledge that Dean was sitting unhappily in that room, playing silently and alone.

I'll make it up to him, he thought at last, pulling the notes from the jacket pocket and spreading them out on the table. I'll spend all evening with them both, and read to them and play with them.

He sat down at the table and started to read through what he'd written. There was one thing that had been common to all the victims, but he couldn't fathom its importance. Or how it fit with the deaths.

All the victims had lost someone close to them recently, between one and six weeks before they died. How the hell that tied them together, he didn't know.

* * *

John watched the boy working his way through the pizza. He'd been a bit doubtful about the topping, worrying that Dean would find the sausage too spicy to manage, but he'd underestimated his son's determination to finish what he started. He watched the little boy's expression as the taste hit his tongue, hiding a smile at the startled look that was quickly followed by a look of faint alarm. But Dean had kept eating, taking frequent sips of his soda to cool his mouth.

In the high chair beside Dean, Sammy ate the slice of lasagne happily, spreading tomato sauce and the creamy béchamel sauce across his face, over his hands and chest and around the area of the table he could reach. John handed him a napkin and shook his head as that only succeeded in spreading the pale pink mess further.

An older couple sat at the table a few feet away, and he caught the eye of the woman, watching the boys, a smile curving her full mouth. He lifted an eyebrow resignedly and her smile widened, softening the lines of her face. She lifted a shoulder sympathetically then turned back to her companion as he leaned close and spoke to her.

"How's the pizza?" he asked Dean. The boy looked up, chewing frantically, then pushing the mouthful into one cheek.

"Good!" It came out a little more vehemently than necessary.

John nodded seriously. "Do you like the sausage? It's not too hot?"

Dean shook his head and swallowed. "No, I like it." He picked up his drink and sucked another mouthful, then looked up at his father. "It's a little bit hot, but it's good."

They finished their desserts around seven, and John downed the last mouthful of his coffee, standing up slowly. Dean slid down from his chair, walking around the table to help his brother out of the high chair. The toddler put his sticky hand into his father's, and they followed Dean out of the restaurant. The couple had gone, John saw as they passed the table.

Beside the car, he gave Dean a handful of tissues and asked him to clean up his brother before he touched the upholstery. The little boy took them without comment as he helped Sammy climb into the back seat. John watched absently as Dean did his best to remove the layers of sauce from Sammy's face and hands, seeing without really noticing the way the boy handled his little brother tactfully, Sammy's protests and evasions mild and not really determined. Sliding into the driver's seat when Dean had finished, John started the engine and pulled out of the lot, his thoughts already circling the discrepancies of the bodies, of the deaths, the case that at the back of his mind, he feared he wouldn't be able to finish.

He drove slowly, his mind worrying the information he'd found that day the way a dog worries a particularly juicy bone. The flub-flub-flub noise and the pull on the steering wheel brought him out of those thoughts in a hurry.

"Dad, we got a flat," Dean said unnecessarily from the back seat. John nodded.

"Yeah, we do." He pulled over to the side of the road, and looked around. There was no moon tonight, and he'd taken the road through the common, the darkness surrounding them thick and black.

"Okay, you two sit tight and I'll have it changed in a minute," he said, reaching to the passenger side to get the flashlight and opening the door.

Walking back to the trunk, the flashlight beam playing over the flat tyre, the ground, the side of the car, he saw the glint of the nail on the way and swore softly under his breath. He opened the trunk and pulled out the spare, setting it next to the wheel, then took out the jack and lug wrench. Along this part of the common road, the trees had been planted close. The night had been still, but he felt a light breeze brush past him as he knelt on the asphalt, and pushed the jack under the chassis.

"_John …"_

The word was no more than a breath, an almost soundless whisper. His hands paused in manoeuvring the jack, and he lifted his head, looking around. There was nothing there, just the dark and the slight rustle of the leaves of the trees. A shiver trembled along his spine but he bent his head, pushing it aside as his hands positioned the jack and he started to lift the car.

"_John … John … I need you."_

This time the whisper was louder, and icy sweat crawled down his back in spite of the warmth of the night. He knew that voice. He'd told himself a million times he'd never hear that voice again.

"_John, come to me, I'm hurt, I need you."_

She was calling, her voice insistent. He looked down at his hands, at the way his fingers were trembling around the jack handle, the strength gone from them as he tried to force them to close on the cool metal. It was impossible, impossible, he'd watched her die, it couldn't be her.

But it was her voice.

He tried again to close his hands around the jack handle, feeling his pulse accelerating, his breath explode in harsh puffs from between his lips. The car lifted another couple of inches before the soft call came out of the dark again.

"_John, please … I'm hurt, you have to help me, I'm here, come to me."_

Tears filled his eyes as he stared fixedly down at the road's rough surface. Not possible, not possible, not possible. The thought chanted in his head. The small cold voice responded. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, but it is her voice. Maybe … maybe she did survive, somehow …

_Stop it!_

He reined in the thought viciously. It wasn't _possible_. He'd scattered her ashes, her dental records had confirmed it was her. She was dead. She was gone.

"Dad?" Dean's high voice piped from above him. He looked up, seeing his son blurrily through the tears that spilled over and coursed down his cheeks.

"I thought I heard you call …" Dean looked down at his father, the tear tracks reflecting in the flashlight's beam scaring him more than the voice had done. "Dad?"

"I'm alright, Dean. Stay in the car. Stay with Sammy, you understand me? Don't move." John found his voice, a wavering shadow of its usual deep-timbred tone.

"Okay," Dean agreed reluctantly.

"_John, come to me … I'm here, I'm alive and I need you …"_

He stood slowly, glancing briefly into the back seat, seeing the boys sitting close together, Dean's arms around his brother. He turned and walked around the car, his face briefly illuminated and shadowed by the headlights as he stepped off the road. The light from the car disappeared under the shadows of the trees.

"It's all right, Sammy, it's all right." Dean's teeth were chattering slightly but he held his brother tightly.

"Mary?" he called, his voice hoarse and quiet. He'd left the flashlight by the car and had to inch his way from tree trunk to trunk, shuffling his feet along the ground, moving by feel, his eyes straining to adjust to the darkness, to reach through it and see her.

"_John … I'm here."_

He felt his breath catch in his throat, his chest lifting against the weight of pain and fear. "Mary, where are -?"

A sudden glare of light splashed the trees and shrubs in front of him, forcing him to stop, eyes narrowed tightly against the unexpected brightness. Behind him, he could hear fragments of voices, low, urgent voices and the crackling of vegetation as someone ran through the undergrowth toward him. John turned, an arm flung up over his face against the twin beams of light shining at him. He couldn't see the person coming, could hear the crack of breaking branches and the thud of heavy footsteps.

"Hey! Come away, come away now!" The voice was a man's, deep, rough, the thick accent rounding and blurring the words. John staggered back against a trunk as a large powerful hand closed over his arm.

"You're in danger here. Come. Now." The hand pulled at him.

"No, wait, Mary –" he whispered, shaking his head, no longer sure he'd really heard her, no longer sure of what was happening to him.

"Not Mary," the man said and John slitted his eyes, trying to make out the man who held him. "It's a trick. Come."

Following the man back through the trees, stumbling a little, John kept his eyes on the brightly lit ground, fighting against the tiredness that seemed to have reached into every muscle. He looked up as the trees thinned out, seeing a second car right across the narrow road, twin headlights on high beam pointing toward them.

He felt the hard smooth asphalt beneath his feet, as they crossed to one side of the headlight beams and looked up at the man whose hand was still tightly clamped around his forearm, a dark haired man, not tall but very broad.

"Who are you?" Glancing at the Impala, John saw the back door open, another adult leaning inside, inside where his boys were. "Hey! Get away from them!"

The man shook his head, hand reaching out to grip his shoulder. "That is Valentina. My wife. Your children are not harmed."

The woman straightened from the door, and he saw her face, the familiarity of it tugging at his memory. The woman from the restaurant. The one who'd smiled at Sammy's mess.

He turned back to the man beside him. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?"

"My name is Yvgeny Tasarov," the man told him, stepping closer to the black car with a one-sided shrug as he offered his hand. "We saw the car, saw your children, couldn't see you, so we stopped to see if we could help."

John frowned, shaking Tasarov's hand as he tried to make what he remembered fit, make sense. "John Winchester. I heard … I thought I heard … something … in the wood."

Yvgeny nodded slowly. "Many people here have heard something in the woods and gone in, but didn't come out again. Is better to change the tyre and keep going, yes?"

John pinpointed the accent. "You're Russian?"

Yvgeny laughed self-consciously. "American citizens, for many years now. But yes, we are from Russia originally. Come, we change the tyre, you will be on your way."

"Did you hear anything? In the woods?" John followed him around the car.

Yvgeny and Valentina exchanged a look, too fast for him to decipher. "No, we heard nothing."

John knelt beside the jack, lifting the car the final few inches. He picked up the lug wrench and began to loosen the nuts. He glanced up as he worked, seeing the two had separated, Valentina stood near the rear of the car, watching the woods. Yvgeny had moved to the front of the car, his eyes also scanning the darkness under the trees. Something in the way they stood rang alarm bells in him. They stood alertly, almost like soldiers, waiting for an attack.

He'd joined the Marines when he'd turned eighteen, along with his friends. Two tours in a jungle-filled country on the other side of the world had given him that alarm system, the sense of things that weren't right, that weren't what they seemed. Whatever the Tasarovs were, he thought worriedly, they weren't ordinary civilians.

He worked in silence, removing the nuts, and the wheel, lifting the spare onto the stud bolts and replacing the nuts quickly. As he tightened the last one and let the jack down, he glanced up again, feeling the faint breeze brush against his cheek once more.

Yvgeny stood beside him, and lifted the flat tyre, rolling it around to the trunk as John stood up. He followed the other man to the trunk, but not quickly enough to prevent him from lifting the false floor and seeing what lay under it.

Holding the lid up, Yvgeny looked silently into the deep well. Guns, handguns, shotguns and rifles, ammunition, bags of salt, boxes of iron filings, a couple of small recurve bows, several bundles of arrows, a cross-bow and another bundle of quarrels and a couple of flare guns lay neatly compartmentalised within the space. John looked down at it as well, knowing full well there was absolutely nothing he could say about the contents.

"Perhaps we'd better talk." Yvgeny said slowly, lowering the lid and settling the flat on top of it. "We are at the Moonglow Motel, off the main street."

John looked at the other man's neutral expression and nodded. "All right. We're there too."

He watched as Tasarov looked around, the Russian's voice dropping slightly. "We should go now. We will follow you. Go straight there."

"Wait – do you know what's happening here?" John asked. He'd seen that wariness before. It was a wariness that had been inculcated into him by a hunter from the East End of London.

Yvgeny looked toward his wife, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "We will talk there. This place … is not a good place to stand and talk."

They waited until John had gotten back into the car and the V8 engine rumbled to life, then they returned to their car, reversing it back off the road, out of the way. The square headlights sat behind him all the way back to the motel, matching his speed.

* * *

John got the boys into their pyjamas, and helped Sammy to brush his teeth. He settled them into their beds, closing the door and walked restlessly around the main room. What the hell was going on? Was he losing it, to let a couple of strangers into his life – here – now? He had no sense of danger from them, he considered as he reached the kitchenette and turned around, pacing his tension out across the room. Didn't make them safe.

The knock on the door, a single brisk knock, dragged his attention back to the room, and he walked quickly to the door, opening it and standing back as Yvgeny and Valentina entered.

"You're a hunter?" Valentina turned to look at him steadily when the door had closed. John's eyes widened slightly at her familiarity with the term and he nodded cautiously.

"As are we." She walked to the table and sat down. Yvgeny followed her more slowly, looking around the room, his eyes, dark brown, deepset under thick black brows, missing nothing.

"The creature in this place …" he said, turning back to the table, and taking the third chair as John sat down. "… is known by many names, many cultures around the world. In our country, they are called whisperers. In the east, in India and Pakistan and Afghanistan, they are known as crocottas. The Native American Indians had their own names for them," he said with a glance at his wife. "There is no difference in what you call them, they are all the same thing."

"Which is?" John looked from one to the other, leaning on the table.

"Vampires. Of the soul," Valentina said softly. "They can pick at the information in a person's mind, sift it for sadness, and mimic the voices of loved ones perfectly. The victim goes willingly to them, and is drained of their soul, their … life-force … until the heart gives out and they die."

"All the victims had lost someone close to them recently," John said slowly, remembering the anomaly. "They were drawn out to the … crocotta? whisperer? … with the voices of the people they'd lost?"

"As you were. _Da_." Yvgeny shrugged. "For people in the midst of grief, of grieving, it can be easy to believe that somehow the person isn't dead, to convince yourself it was all a terrible mistake."

John looked away abruptly, feeling his throat close and his chest tighten. Valentina laid her hand over his, where it rested on the table.

"It is well-known, yes? The first stage of grief is denial, John," she said gently, her eyes sympathetic. "And that is how the whisperer convinces their victims."

He took a breath, sucking it hard down into the depths of his lungs. If nothing else, he thought, ignoring the savage kick of anger he could feel, he knew what it was now. "How do we kill it?"

Again, husband and wife exchanged a fast, undefinable look. "With silver or iron, penetrating the base of the neck, where it joins the spine," Yvgeny said casually. "They are … _neulovimyy_, yes? Ah …"

"Elusive," Valentina supplied the English word. "Difficult to find unless they're hunting."

"What about its lair? Where it hides?" John screwed his focus tightly onto the hunt, onto finding out about the creature, pushing his thoughts and his memories of Mary deeper. He still couldn't believe how perfectly it had sounded like her … so perfectly his body had reacted, not just his mind.

"It might not have a lair, in that sense," Valentina answered, looking at her husband. "They can look like people, walk among us without us being the wiser."

"They attract insects, though," Yvgeny added, a frown drawing his thick, black brows together. "They live in a bed of filth and rot, and there are always insects – flies, ants, maggots, scavengers – around them."

John looked up at him slowly. The flies had come through the window casement, not from the outside of the building, but from between the walls. The smell, familiar to him now, underlying the building's more pungent chemicals returned as his mind's eye saw the insects crawling out.

"Then I know where it is."

The couple looked at him, then each other. He told them about the funeral home office, the flies crawling out of the architraves, the faint smell of decomposition that he'd put down to the business of preparing the dead.

Valentina's lips curved into a slight smile, her eyes, a warm, dark grey, lighting up. "That was good observation."

Yvgeny nodded briskly. "We'll go after it tomorrow. It will be unready for us at its … day job."

* * *

Valentina knocked at the room's door before eight the next morning. John hurried to the door, straightening his tie and tugging the hem of the suit jacket down. It was Sunday, but the suit and his identification would get him out of almost anything, if the monster was there, or one of the employees. At the small table, Dean and Sammy sat silently, spoons poised over their bowls as they watched him open the door, the Russian woman walking in.

"You will go with Geny," she said briskly and without preamble. "I will stay here, make sure that they are safe."

John nodded, relieved that she would be here. Hunting the monster would be a lot easier if he didn't have to worry about the boys, if someone was here, looking after them, someone … capable. He was a little surprised by how readily he trusted the Tasarovs. After Deke's death and Ben's, he'd been reluctant to trust his instincts, reluctant to trust in anything. He had to sometime, he knew. His gut told him that these people were exactly what they said they were.

Valentina walked to the table, smiling at Dean and Sam. John looked at the boys, meeting Dean's questioning gaze.

"Dean, this is Mrs Tasarov, she's going to stay with you for awhile while I go and do my job."

Valentina shook her head. "Valentina, please. Mrs Tasarov makes me sound too old."

Dean looked up at her, his expression serious. John could see his son's considered response to that forming behind the too-wide green eyes and nodded, trying to catch the boy's attention.

"Valentina then. Dean … Dean!" he said, raising his voice as Dean continued to stare at Valentina with interest. He looked at his father. "Uh, you and Sammy are on your best behaviour with our guest, okay?" He patted his pockets, feeling wallet, badge, gun and phone in them, and added, "And finish your breakfasts."

Dean turned his head, and nodded, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm porridge and slurping it off obediently. Sam watched his brother and did the same, right down to the same noisy slurp. John looked at them in mild annoyance, but Valentina's smile was indulgent, and she shook her head slightly.

"Go, they'll be fine."

After a second's hesitation, John walked to the door and let himself out, closing the door behind him. Geny was waiting in his car, and he got in, slouching down in the bucket seat slightly.

Geny glanced at him and started the engine, backing out of the slot and rolling down the driveway.

"The whisperer is very strong, John," the Russian said as they drove along the quiet street, "It feeds on souls but can defend itself if attacked. It can put you into a … what is the word? … waking? … dream. A dream you have even if you're awake. You understand?"

John nodded, thinking of Kadrick, the odd glint he'd seen at the back of his eyes. In the woods, he'd been disoriented, Mary's voice bringing more back than memory, bringing sense recall, some of it so powerful he'd felt as if he'd gone back in time, back to a place where none of it had happened.

"What's the plan?"

The funeral home was closed and locked as expected. The opening hours were by appointment on a Sunday, from mid-afternoon. John looked up at the apartment over the premises. The blinds were drawn, giving the windows a secretive air.

"We'll go around the back," Geny said softly, turning to walk back down the front stairs to the car. John followed him, trying to look as if he had no further interest in the place.

They cruised slowly around the block, the engine of the car a low and indistinct rumble until the Russian saw the narrow alley that each of the houses backed onto. Manoeuvring the car through the constricted space, avoiding the lines of trash cans and larger dumpsters that turned the alley into an obstacle course, Geny muttered and swore in his native tongue as he eased up to the funeral home's rear entrance. The logo had been painted on the back fence, and he drove past it a little, pulling over a couple of buildings down.

None of the buildings overlooked the alley, and Geny crouched, picking the deadlock on the tall, metal-sheeted rear gate in privacy. John looked around as they crossed the cramped concrete yard, with its small loading dock and an immaculate black hearse parked to one side. It looked tidy, he thought. Another disguise.

It was, he had to admit, a near perfect setup for a monster like this one. Knowing who would be vulnerable to its calls, knowing when they would be around, when they wouldn't. He shook his head. If one existed here, how many others were there? Scattered around the small towns of the country, taking visitors and the bereaved; or in the big cities, where people disappeared every day as a matter of course? He'd carefully written down all the details Geny and Valentina had spoken of the previous evening in his journal; the characteristics of the creature, the circumstances of this case, the methods for finding and killing it. It was more than a record, he knew. For himself it was a way of keeping score, a means of seeing his own progress. One day, it would be the foundation for his sons, to keep them safe.

At the solid back door of the building, Geny again picked the lock, the faint scratchings of the wrench and pick almost lost under the birdsong that filled the gardens of the houses to either side. The door swung inward, revealing a utility room full of shadows and they entered silently, closing the door behind them, waiting until their eyes had adjusted to the gloom. It was a big building to search. Geny pointed downwards and John nodded in agreement. The basement seemed like the logical place to start.

Walking down the hallway into the house, they turned into what had been a kitchen. It was now the embalming room, and Geny gestured with a stiff-fingered hand at the door to one side. John skirted the two stainless steel tables bolted to the floor, each with drains and taps at their ends, as the Russian moved along the wall, passing a long length of built in cupboards, sinks set into the stainless countertops. In spite of being ready for a confrontation, when it came, it took John by surprise. He'd looked along the walls, thought he'd seen into the darker shadows between the cupboards, but he must have missed one.

Kadrick leapt out of the darkness and had his long-fingered hands wrapped around John's throat before he could draw breath even to shout. John fought to get his fingers under the monster's, staring into a face that didn't resemble the pale funeral director's so much anymore. The lower jaw was dropping, exposing rows of long, pointed teeth that jutted out from the gums at different angles and he rolled sharply to one side, hoping to shift the weight from his chest, to dislodge the frightening strength of the grip cutting off his air.

On the other side of the room, Geny's head snapped around as he saw John fall, and he was moving fast around the tables as John looked up and watched in blank horror as the bones of Kadrick's continued to change. His vision was clouding, greying at the sides and his strength was trickling away.

The creature looked down and met his eyes and John flinched in pain at the contact, his mind suddenly blanketed by images, thick and smothering, blocking out his senses, his will, even the knowledge that he was dying, without blood or oxygen to his brain.

The images were all of Mary, every memory and moment they'd shared.

He stopped struggling as they filled the darkness behind his closed lids; her face, her eyes, her mouth, wide, full lipped, curved in tenderness, widely grinning, those soft lips against his, her arms wrapping around his waist as she pressed her face against his chest, the smell of her, fresh from a shower and combing out her long, blonde hair, the taste of her mouth when they'd made love for the first time, nervous and excited and clumsy and desperate for each other, the feel of her skin, silken under his fingertips, and the sound of her singing in the shower, pregnant with Dean, her laughter and embarrassment when he'd stripped down and joined her under the steaming spray of water … he was lost in the memories, drowning in them and he barely felt the tug at the centre of his mind and heart, the strange pulling sensation …

* * *

Geny slid under the second table, the long, sharpened metal spike gripped firmly in one hand as he pushed against the floor and rolled onto his knees. The whisperer turned its head toward him, hissing furiously at the interruption and swung a long arm, its fingers now tipped by claws. Geny ducked, moving around as the creature released John and the younger man fell to the floor, his eyes wide open, but unseeing, lost in a sea of memory, of the dreams he'd once had.

Turning toward him, Kadrick leapt, moving almost faster than the eye could see; Geny felt the slam of its weight against him, and his feet slithered out on the slick vinyl tiles, his weight too far back as it leaned over him, forcing him down.

He grunted as felt the suck of the creature's mouth, the pull on the intangible part of him that had no physical location. He could feel its hypnotic enchantment starting to invade his mind, a whirlwind of memories from his past, then it was gone, the memories vanishing, his senses restored.

Opening his eyes, he realised he'd been unaware they'd closed. He looked up. The whisperer's face was still, eyes open but empty, mouth hanging wide like some foul trap. Behind the head, he saw John, his face pale with shock and beaded in perspiration, the green eyes wide with a mixture of horror and regret. Geny dropped his gaze slightly and saw the protruding point of the steel spike, dripping blood where it had emerged from high up the chest.

John twisted the spike and rolled the whisperer to one side, off the Russian. He pulled out the spike and threw it aside, face twisted in a grimace of distaste as he reached a hand to the older man and pulled him to his feet.

"Thank you," Geny said with a rueful half-smile as he stared down at the shrunken frame of the monster. "Once they're over you, it's hard to get clear."

"Yeah." John nodded, remembering how swiftly he'd fallen under the spell. "I noticed."

He looked around the room. "What do we do with the body?"

Geny shook his head. "Nothing. The afternoon sun will hit it there," he told John, looking at the windows in the upper part of the walls. "Sunlight will turn the body to dust. There will be nothing to indicate the identity, or the cause of the death, or even that it once lived."

* * *

John turned the key in the motel room's lock and opened the door. He saw his eldest son, kneeling on the chair and bent over a puzzle on the table, tongue protruding slightly with the effort of concentration. Valentina sat on the other side of the table, looking up and smiling as he walked in. Sam was nowhere in sight, but a slight tilt of Valentina's head indicated that he was having a nap in the other room. Dean turned and looked up, his face lighting up as he saw his father.

"Dad! Valentina bought me this puzzle – it's a car, just like ours, and I did it all by myself!"

John walked to stand behind Dean's chair, looking down at the puzzle in front of the boy. The completed picture was a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, red. Dean had almost finished it, one corner remained to do.

He grinned at him, noticing that his son's eyes were the same shape as Mary's had been. The memory no longer hurt as much as it had. He felt a moment's sadness at that knowledge. "Almost finished it. Are you going to keep going?"

Dean was looking at him, the expressive face uncertain. He saw too much, John realised, forcing himself to shed that sadness. Reassured, his son nodded and turned back to the table. John hoped that he would forget about the things he saw in his father's eyes. It was likely to be a futile hope, he acknowledged. By whatever alchemy had been present in the genes of his parents, his oldest son was far more observant and felt things far more deeply than he could recall doing as a child.

"Geny is with you?" Valentina asked, her smile widening as she noticed her husband walk in the door behind John. "Then it went well."

"So-so." Geny shrugged. "As well as can be hoped for." He walked to the table and bent slightly to kiss her cheek.

She rose from the table and went to the coffee pot, pouring fresh cups for them. The two men followed her, leaning against the counters as they drank the coffee slowly. Geny looked at John for a long moment.

"It is not good to hunt alone," he said in a neutral voice. Valentina nodded.

"Nor to leave your children unprotected."

John looked down into his cup. Neither opinion was news. There was nothing he could do about it. "I don't have much choice."

He turned to look over his shoulder at his son. Dean was completely occupied with the puzzle, and slowly, falteringly, John told the couple what had happened to his life, to his family … to his wife … his voice low. He didn't go into the details but neither showed any surprise, both listening carefully and, he thought, getting more than the sum of the words. He told them about Ben and Jan and Jim Murphy, not missing the flicker of recognition on Geny's face when he mentioned the priest. He told them of Deke and what had happened when he'd returned to Blue Earth. By the time he'd finished, his throat was stiff and tight.

He glanced at Dean, swallowing against the tightness.

"I know this isn't a good way of living. Not for them, not for me." He looked at Valentina. "But I must find this thing – this demon. I have to."

She looked at Geny, one eyebrow raised slightly. Her husband met her eyes briefly and sighed.

"Then we will hunt together. Whenever it's possible. And if you need to hunt the demon, then you will bring the boys to us. So that they will be safe, and protected. Yes?"

John bit at the corner of his lip. "I thought Ben and Jan were safe," he said softly.

"They were not hunters." Valentina reached out and took his hand. "This life, it is not going to be easy. Not for you. Not for them. You must be vigilant, every moment, yes?" She turned to look at his son. "But no, you cannot take them into the danger with you. And you cannot protect them if you die."

He looked into her face – a strong face with high, wide Slavic cheekbones, smooth skin with a slightly olive undercast, large, intelligent, dark-grey eyes – then looked away.

"I don't want to responsible for anyone else's death," he said, turning back to look at her.

"No more than we do," she told him, with a hint of finality. "But this offer, we are making for ourselves, John. I could not sleep thinking of your children, either alone and unprotected, or with you, distracting you, endangering all of your lives."

Geny looked from his wife to John. "Hunting alone is a fool's idea, John. Look at what happened to us both today."

Valentina gave him a sharp look, and the corners of his mouth tucked in as he hid a wry smile. She would have the details out of him later.

John sighed. They were right. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn't continue the way he was going now, not while the boys were so young. He needed help. And help was being offered. It would be churlish, but more importantly, it would be stupid not to take it.

He nodded slowly. "I'm glad we met."

* * *

_Rough wind, that moanest loud_

_Grief too sad for song;_

_Wild wind, when sullen cloud_

_Knells all the night long;_

_Sad storm whose tears are vain,_

_Bare woods, whose branches strain,_

_Deep caves and dreary main,-_

_Wail, for the world's wrong!_

_~Percy Shelley_


	2. Chapter 2 A Taste for Death

**Chapter 2 A Taste for Death**

* * *

_There's this to say for blood and breath,_

_They give a man a taste for death_

_~ A E Houseman_

* * *

_**1985. Heeney, Colorado.**_

Dean ran after his brother, his footfalls thundering on the cabin's timber floors and quick and bloody murder a promise in his heart. Sam ducked and dodged around the furniture, Dean's Lego block clutched in a small, sweaty hand. He turned his head to look behind him as he ran, the sight of the unrestrained fury in his brother's face eliciting a high-pitched nervous giggle in reaction, and the chase was over as quickly as it had begun when he swung his head back to see where he was going and miscalculated the width of the door. The little boy slammed into the frame, his forehead taking the primary impact, and fell straight backwards, a near perfect example of inertial forces as he ricocheted off the solid timber onto the floor. A few feet behind him, Dean slowed, his initial self-righteous triumph disappearing as he saw Sammy lying still, his skin white and his eyes closed, on the floor.

"Sam?" He crouched beside his brother, watching the small round red spot on his brother's forehead gradually get darker and start to swell. Reaching out with one fingertip, Dean gingerly touched it, his voice rising as the light press left a circle of white in the midst of the red and vanished. "Sammy? You alright?"

He would be in trouble for chasing Sam, but that no longer worried him. He lifted his head and yelled for his father as loudly as he could.

John came out of the bedroom, swearing softly to himself. He'd been aware of their games, in a distant, peripheral sort of way. He'd heard Dean's shouts of protest as Sam had taken another vital piece from whatever it was his oldest son had been building. He should have intervened then, instead of ignoring it and trying to finish the last page of the book Geny had given him. The panic in Dean's voice now meant that option was gone.

Striding fast to the living room, he scooped up the two-and-a-half year old little boy in his arms, and sat on the couch, cradling him in one arm as he looked over his skull, lifted an eyelid, checked nose and ears. No bleeding.

The lump rose fast, the skin stretched over it a mottled grey and white and red. Sammy opened his eyes and looked around. He saw his father's face over him, and next to him, his brother's face, no longer red with fury, now white, the dark green eyes huge and the scattering of amber freckles standing out vividly over his nose and cheeks. The sight of Dean's fear brought a hard lump to Sammy's chest.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice was a whisper. Sammy started to nod, then stopped as a wash of pain filled his head and a wave of sickness rose in his tummy.

John saw his face turn a creamy grey and got up, carrying the boy to the bathroom and dropping to one knee by the toilet as Sammy leaned forward and heaved and coughed his breakfast into the bowl. His eyes began to tear at the bite of the stomach acid in the last few drops against his throat and he trembled in his father's arms, squeezing them shut in an effort to not start crying.

Dean took the face cloth from the shower and turned on the cold tap, wetting it, wringing it out and passing it to his father. Wiping Sammy's face, John saw the colour begin to return to it, and he folded the cloth, holding it gently over the lump.

"Okay, back to bed for you," he said quietly.

* * *

The knock at the motel room's door announced Geny and Valentina's arrival a few moments later. Dean ran to open it at his father's nod, standing back as the Russians walked in, both wrapped head to foot in coats and scarves and gloves.

"Sorry, but you have a convalescent on your hands," John told Valentina dryly as he took her coat. Dean stood beside him, looking at the floor. "Sammy had an altercation with a doorframe this morning so he's in bed for the day, at least."

Valentina made a small tsk noise in her throat and went through to the boys' bedroom to look at him. Geny looked down at Dean, his mouth tucked in slightly at the corners, hiding a smile as he saw the boy's remorseful expression.

"Brothers, eh?" he remarked, his deep, rough voice understanding. Dean looked up and nodded slightly.

"How's the weather holding?" John looked at his friend. "Forecast was for more snow."

Geny nodded. "Not for a couple of days, we should be able to get in and back without too much trouble."

John looked down at Dean. "Valentina is staying to look after you and Sam."

Dean's face brightened slightly. He liked Valentina, she could think of lots of good things to do.

"Best behaviour, Dean. And take care of Sammy," John said quietly. "And no more running around the house."

"Yes, sir. I will," he answered promptly, nodding. "We won't." He smiled shyly at Geny and ran off to the bedroom.

"Let's go." John sighed and picked up his gear bag.

* * *

"Vampires. Really?"

John turned to look at Geny's profile, as they drove up the narrow road that wound higher into the mountains. Winter had already come, and the trees that pressed close to the sides of the road wore a mantling of white, the shoulders of the road hidden under steep banks of snow.

"They've been around for thousands of years, John," Geny answered lightly, keeping his attention firmly locked on the road. The mostly dirt road twisted and switch-backed its way up the canyon's walls and the going was slow, the Russian occasionally swearing softly in his native language as the car lurched and slid on the greasy surface.

"The Egyptians spoke of them, the Sumerians and Mesopotamians – in every culture and tribe and race on the planet there are legends and stories of the vampire. Most of them wrong, according to Elkins." He grinned, white teeth flashing in the midst of the heavy black beard and moustache. "Daniel has hunted them his whole life, so you listen to what he says about them."

John nodded uncertainly. He was having difficulties getting Bela Lugosi out of his head in relation to the subject. He'd seen the film as a teenager in Lawrence, a midnight showing of golden oldies, and the Count was still his archetype when he thought of a blood-sucker – elegantly dressed, heavily accented … entirely unbelievable.

"Here it is."

Geny snaked the car around the deep potholes that marked the driveway to the house, cursing as he hit one, the car thumping into the hole. "_Lenivyĭ ublyudok!_" he muttered under his breath, as he wrenched the wheel around to avoid another.

He stopped behind a battered Ford pickup, half covered in snow, in the turnaround in front of the house. John got out slowly, reaching back in to grab his bag. The house was three miles from Manning, high in a canyon on the edge of the range that ran north, and eventually, up in Wyoming, became the Tetons. Ponderosa and lodge pole pine, Douglas fir and copses of aspen woodland surrounded it, the massive trees clinging to the thin soil that barely covered the ancient granite bones of the mountains. The house was a simple two-storey building, well-built, and well-maintained.

The front door opened and John watched as a slim red-haired man, in jeans and a thick, fleece-lined flannel jacket, walked across the porch to the steps, looking down at them. Elkins, he thought. The hunter's skin was fair, his eyes, set deeply under reddish brows, were blue.

"Geny. How did you like the road?" The corner of the hunter's mouth lifted slightly. "Just like home, eh?"

Geny looked up at him and scowled. "At home we would fill the holes before and after the snow so that the vehicles do not fall into them," he retorted.

John walked up to the steps and held out his hand. "John Winchester."

Elkins looked down at the proffered hand for a moment, then took it in his own. "Daniel Elkins." He glanced at Geny. "You're here for lessons in hunting vampires?"

John shrugged non-commitally. "Well, for understanding them anyway."

Elkins studied him. "Yeah, that's a good place to start." He turned back to the front door and walked inside. "Come on in, wipe your feet."

John looked at Geny, who shrugged, stepping up onto the narrow porch and wiping his feet ostentatiously on the coir mat. "Every hunter tends to be a bit – what is word? – eccentric."

Smiling at the understatement, John followed him inside, wiping his feet thoroughly on the mat. No point in annoying the man who could give him the information that might save his life one day, he thought resignedly.

* * *

"The first thing you need to know is that most of the publicly known lore is bullshit." Daniel poured freshly brewed coffee into three large cups, and passed one each to John and Geny. "Too many fiction writers have romanticised the crap out of the monsters since Stoker, and the result is a disaster."

John settled himself on the long sofa in front of the fire, his hands cradling the cup as he looked around. The walls were panelled in a light wood, the wide pine floorboards varnished and covered by rugs. It was surprisingly comfortable for a hunter, he thought. A settled-in house.

"Vampires do not burn up at the first touch of sunlight." Daniel said sourly. "My job would be a lot easier if that were true, but it ain't." He sat in the armchair by the fire and looked at John. "And you can stake 'em through the heart using anything you like, but they won't die until you take off their heads."

John's eyebrows rose. "So basically all the crucifixes, running water, fire, garlic etcetera is a load of hooey?"

"Basically, yeah." Daniel sipped his coffee. "The things that are true are these – they can see in the dark as well as we can in the light; sunlight will affect them, but it's more like a bad case of sunburn, than burning to ashes – although I suppose if you left one out in the sunlight, it might eventually do some permanent damage." He set down his cup on the small table beside the chair and leaned forward. "Their senses are heightened, far above our own, maybe more sensitive than a dog's even. They can hear things that we can't. They can smell us from a mile away, and once they've got your scent, they remember it for life – so you don't ever, _ever_, leave one alive."

John sipped his coffee, listening.

Daniel glanced at Geny. "They do have some type of mind trick – don't know how to describe it, really, something between hypnotism and misdirection. But that's mainly with the older ones, the ones who've been around for a long time."

"How old can get they get?"

"Well, over here, there are maybe two or three who are more than a hundred years old. I'm not sure why, maybe they're dumber? In Europe, there are a quite a few who might be somewhere between three hundred and a thousand years old." Daniel's mouth quirked as he saw John's expression. "They can't be found, and they're very, very powerful. But, luckily we don't have to worry about them. The first hundred years is the make-or-break for a vampire. They can be killed – relatively – easily at that time, because they don't know what they're doing most of the time."

"And it takes a certain kind of personality, character, to withstand the reality of immortality," Geny added softly. Daniel looked at him and nodded.

"Yeah, that too." He looked back to John, seeing his confusion. "Think about it – after a hundred years, hell, after about fifty years, you've watched all your friends, everyone you knew in life growing old and dying. And then the world changes, around you, all the time. In the last century, the world basically went from a primarily agriculturally based civilisation to a primarily industrially based one. Just since 1945, we've got television, radio, global communications, people who don't have to get their hands dirty to get food – they can go to the nearest shop and buy it. So for a vampire, all this change means that they have to change too, they have to adapt to things that weren't around before they were made."

John thought about it, thought about the increasing need he had to learn more about technology, to use computers, and his reluctance to commit the time and effort to do so. He nodded.

"So, most vampires are killed or just die through their own lack of survival skills in that first hundred years. The ones who survive, well, they're a different kettle of fish, but luckily for us, they're rare." He picked up his cup, his eyes darkening slightly as a memory came and went. "Vampires don't have fangs – not in the way the books and the movies suggest. They have a second set of retractable teeth that come down over the human teeth, from high at the top of the gums. And those are bad – like a bunch of daggers, they're longer than the human teeth and sharp, pointed, and the vampire takes a big bite with them, not just little punctures, but more like ripping out a chunk of flesh. They can drain a victim in two minutes, if they haven't fed for a while."

"Protection against them?" John looked at him.

"Not much," Daniel admitted. "There are some sigils, designs, from Europe which have worked a little, but not consistently. Silver might be protective. Against the very old ones it is, but it doesn't seem to have the same effect on the younger ones. If you can inject, or even stab 'em with something coated in the blood of a dead man in them, that will paralyse them, put them out with a big enough quantity. It's poison to them, dulling their senses, taking their strength. They can feed on animals, when it's necessary, but they do become slower, less powerful if they do, especially over a long period of time. Human blood, living human blood, gives them the powers that they have, the psychic powers, at least."

"Where do they live?"

"It varies a little, but generally speaking they'll make a nest – the master vampire and his fledglings, the vampires he's made. They'll hunt as a pack, and they'll often take the victims back to the nest, keep them alive for a while before draining them outright." Daniel got up, looking out the windows as he went to get the coffee pot to refresh their cups.

"How does the – master – vampire make more vampires?" John frowned, he couldn't remember any lore, fictional or not, that had mentioned breeding.

Daniel didn't answer for a moment, as he filled the cups and set down the empty glass pot. "The vampire forces the person to drink its blood." He shrugged, sitting down again. "Maybe it's some kind of virus, blood-borne. No one knows. But if you drink a vampire's blood, you will turn. And if you feed on a human after that, then nothing can bring you back."

John caught the fine distinction in Elkin's words. "But if you don't feed – can a person be turned back?"

"Well, that's a point of some controversy right now," Daniel said slowly, flicking a glance at Geny. "Some people claim to have a recipe for reversing the effects of the vampire blood. No one has proved it, at least not to me." He grinned humourlessly. "Not many volunteers lining up to test it out."

John looked down into his cup. "What's the recipe?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know. I heard about it from some hunters south, and then they got mostly wiped out by something or other, and I haven't heard of it since."

The phone rang and John started slightly, the sound too prosaic an interruption to the conversation. Daniel got up and answered it, his voice low. He gestured to Geny.

"Valentina."

John's glance flew to Geny as he took the handset, but the older man waved his hand reassuringly, switching to Russian.

"_Chto eto takoe? Eto zaĭmet u menya tri chasa. Skazhite yemu, chto ya mogu byt' tam do temnoty. Da, ya znayu. No eto luchshyee, chto ya mogu sdelat'. Ya ostavlyu syeĭchas_"

He replaced the handset and rubbed his forehead. "Something has come up. I have to go, now."

John looked from Geny to Daniel. "Are the boys all right?"

"_Da_, yes, they're fine. This is something else." He looked at Daniel. "Can you give John a ride back to Heeney later? There is more he needs to know."

Daniel nodded. "Yeah, no problem."

John's brow wrinkled with concern. "Geny, if you need help …?"

Geny smiled and shook his head dismissively. "No, no. It's not that kind of something, John. Just a business matter I need to take care of. Stay, learn. Daniel has been working his way through the vampire population through the years, and I'd be surprised if there are many left, but you never know when you might meet one."

John and Daniel sat in silence for a moment after Geny had left. Then Daniel glanced up at the clock on the wall.

"Sun's past the yard arm, want to make that coffee Irish?" He stood up, and walked to the low sideboard against the wall, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. "Scottish, actually."

John nodded, glancing at his watch. It was ten past four and he felt as if he'd just scratched the surface of what the man sitting opposite knew.

"If they can hear and smell you coming, how can you ever get close enough to kill them?"

"Ah … well, that's the secret." Daniel poured a measure of the whiskey into John's cup, and another into his own. "They do sleep through the day – not the deep, unwakeable sleep that the novels and movies would have you believe, but just a bit deeper than a human would sleep."

He sat down and swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey-laced coffee. "And that's the only time you really have a shot at killing them." He shrugged. "You can get lucky, in a one on one encounter, sometimes, if you know what you're up against before they kill you, but for expediency's sake, it's usually better just to tackle them when they're sleeping."

"But if they sleep together, a lot of them, how do you decapitate all of them without some waking up?"

"John, if you ever have to hunt a vampire's nest, you don't go in alone." Daniel got up again, going to a trunk that sat behind the couch. He opened it and took out an elongated hand gun. John looked at it, eyes narrowed, trying to think where he'd seen a gun like that before.

Daniel caught the look and smiled. "Tranquiliser gun. Get them from vets, zoos, folks who handle big animals."

"This one is a little different; I made a few modifications, so that I didn't have to reload between shots. It'll take twelve darts, each of them with a 500cc dose of dead man's blood – that's a big dose. Gives me the time I need to get around and kill them all before they can take me."

He handed the gun to John, who took it carefully, looking at the construction, seeing the where the breech and chamber had been modified, to accept the darts in quick succession. He lifted it, aiming at the wall, surprised by the lightness and balance.

"Now, bear in mind that thing has virtually no range. You can't stand safely distant and take them down; you've got to be within about five to ten feet to do the job." Daniel watched him handle it, revising his estimation of the quiet, dark man up several notches. "But within that distance, every shot's a winner."

"So, what do you need backup in the nest for?" John handed him back the gun, thinking to himself that he needed to get one – for a few different monsters, actually.

"If it's a small nest, I don't use backup. But for more than ten or so vampires, then yeah, you need a look-out, someone who can just watch them while you're going about your business. And preferably someone on the outside as well, because if any of them get out and away, you've got a grudge killer on your ass, and they really hold a grudge."

"That sounds like personal experience," John said lightly, picking up his coffee. Daniel's brow lifted in wry acknowledgement.

"Oh, it is." He walked back to his armchair, and sat down, drinking a mouthful of coffee. "About a year ago I ran into a nest, and the leader was old, told me he'd been born in 1836. He was powerful, as the older ones are, and I missed him when I cleaned out the nest. I keep a good watch out for him, but he'll be by one of these days. He did kill the two hunters who worked back up for me on that nest. They were dead within a week of that hunt."

His eyes darkened and his expression became bleak as he looked down into the cup for a moment.

"Nothing in this life is forgiving of errors, John," he said quietly, "but hunting vampires may be the least forgiving of them all. They have a taste for death that really has no equal." He looked away, out of the window, where the early mountain twilight was already glooming the forest. "But, learn from my mistakes – don't leave even one alive, make sure you've killed them all."

He stood abruptly, walking to the window. "Dammit."

"What's wrong?" John rose from the couch and walked over to the window, looking at the softly falling snowflakes outside.

Daniel turned to him with a twisted smile. "Hope you didn't have any dinner plans tonight." He gestured to the snowfall. "By the time it's falling here, the pass is already closed."

John looked out at the gently falling snow. "You serious? We can't get out?"

"Not until morning, if the snow doesn't turn into a blizzard." He shook his head. "Sorry, I've should have been keeping an eye on that."

"I need to call Valentina," John said, glancing from the window to the phone worriedly. "She's looking after my sons."

Daniel nodded. "Help yourself."

Picking up the black handset, John dialled the number of the motel room. Valentina picked up after the second ring.

"Valentina? It's John." He paused for a moment. "I'm stuck here. It's snowing and Daniel says the pass will already be closed. Is Geny back?"

He listened to her talking. Geny had called again, he would be back before dark, and the two of them were happy to stay with Dean and Sam for the night. He let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, thank you." He replaced the handset and looked at Daniel, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug. "They're all right, they'll stay with them."

Daniel looked at him, a slight smile lifting one side of his mouth. "The Tasarovs, they're good people."

John nodded his agreement. He wouldn't be alive now without them.

* * *

Valentina put the phone down and turned to Dean. "So, your father won't be able to come home tonight."

Dean's face fell. "Is he working?"

"No, _mischka_. The house he was visiting had a snowstorm, and the roads are blocked until morning. Geny and I will stay with you and Sam for the night, yes?"

"Yeah, okay." He turned slowly and headed back to the bedroom, to let Sammy know. His little brother had been sleeping for much of the day, and probably wouldn't even care, he thought disconsolately.

Valentina watched him go, thinking that she would do something special for dinner, to cheer them up. She glanced at her watch, hoping that Geny would be back soon. She turned to the kitchen, and looked through the cupboards and the refrigerator, noting the ingredients available and adjusting the menu accordingly.

When Geny arrived at the house an hour later, he found his wife busy in the kitchen. The scents of marinated beef and delicately spiced rice filled the air.

"Where's John?" He walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck lightly.

"He rang, the house is snowed in. We will stay here tonight, and look after the boys."

"Ah … that explains the cooking." Geny ducked as she turned fast, hand swinging out to swat him.

"They're in the bedroom, go and see if they are ready to eat in ten minutes, da?"

"Your wish ..." He jumped clear as she scowled at him, and headed down the hall.

"The third pig … bull … bill...ted … built … his house of brick," Dean's high voice said waveringly through the partly open door. Geny pushed the door open wider and peered around it. Dean sat next to his brother on the bed, holding a book and reading slowly from it. He sounded the words out under his breath then read them aloud, moving his finger slowly along each line. Sammy watched, fascinated, as the story unfolded, his eyes shifting between the bright pictures, and his big brother's slow-moving finger.

"That is very good reading, Dean." Geny said quietly, coming further into the room. Dean looked up and smiled, keeping his finger on the word he'd just finished.

"Valentina says that dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Will you be finished by then, or do you want me to read to both of you?"

"I'll be finished." He glanced at his brother's face. "We're nearly at the end now."

Geny nodded, and turned around, slipping out of the door and stopping just outside as he heard Dean's voice resume the story.

"The big w-o-l-f … wolf … stood outside the house and he …"

For children who were moving around the country all the time, he thought that boy's reading was good. He was methodical about working out each and every word, Geny thought to himself as he listened. That determination would stand Dean in good stead, later on. Or get him into trouble.

He turned from the door and returned to the kitchen, wondering if there was any other way for the boys to get more time for an education. John was aware of the problem, he knew, but the man's appetite, perhaps even need, for the hunt was growing stronger.

"What are they doing?" Valentina eased the cubes of meat off the long skewers onto the plate of cheese kasha. Geny sniffed appreciatively as he entered.

"Dean is reading 'The Three Little Pigs' to Sam."

"Akh ... _kak milo_!" Valentina put her hand to her chest, smiling.

* * *

John used a piece of the home baked bread to clean the plate, sopping up the rich sauce of the stew that Elkins had made, with it.

Daniel closed the front door, a sling of logs over one shoulder. He dropped the logs into the half-barrel beside the fire and pulled off his gloves.

"Well, we're here for the night, that's a definite."

John nodded resignedly. He hadn't really thought it would ease off as night fell. He picked up the dishes from the table and put them into the sink.

Daniel picked up two clean glasses from the cupboard and walked back into the living room, setting the glasses on the low table next to the bottle of Scotch and putting a couple more logs on the fire.

"How did you get into hunting vampires?" John walked into the living room and settled himself on the couch. "How did you even find out they existed?"

Daniel poured a double measure into each glass. "That's a long and complicated story."

John shrugged, looking around. "I think we've got time."

"True." He leaned back in the chair. "In 1955, when most of the world's attention was on Korea, specifically, and Asia generally, I was a junior intelligence officer with the CIA."

John straightened a little, looking at the wry expression on Elkin's face. "You're shitting me."

"Nope. I was assigned to our office – for want of a better word – in Nitra, in the Socialist Republic of Slovakia. I was stationed there for two years, basically just learning the ropes, figuring out how to stay alive in the Cold War, mostly learning how to be truly paranoid."

He sipped the whiskey, and John watched his expression darken. "One night, I was walking back to the little flat I rented there, through a short-cut. Nitra's an old city, a very, very old city and it grew really, around the river, it wasn't developed or planned. I'd stopped, to light a cigarette in one of the tiny alleys that criss-cross the city, and I saw her."

He licked his lips slightly. "I had no idea she was a vampire. I didn't even know what a vampire was. I thought she was just a woman, when I first saw her. She was dressed in very old clothes, old-fashioned clothes, a richly made gown, like what they wear in Gone with the Wind, almost. She was standing in the alley, under a window, and the light from the window fell over her."

John leaned forward, his drink forgotten in his hands as he listened.

"Her skin was white, and I mean white, like alabaster. It looked hard too, polished almost. I found out later that meant she hadn't fed for a few days, that pure white skin. I was pretty much mesmerised, partly by the way she looked, she was so beautiful … and partly by the unreality of it, of her, standing there in communist Slovakia." He gave a small laugh, shaking his head at his remembered naiveté. "I probably would have died that night, if it hadn't been for a colleague, a man who was a bit more wise to the dangers that existed than I'd been." He looked up at John, his eyes bright suddenly.

"She was calling, you see? Calling for victims. She was old, and she could do it, just send out this vibe into the night and people would come to her, not knowing why … just come and drained. I didn't know that at the time, but James grabbed me and pulled me away and I went with him."

"The next day, we went back to the alley. Two bodies were there, both completely drained of blood. Both young men, Russian soldiers stationed somewhere around there."

"That night I saw her again, this time in front of the opera house. She looked different. Her skin was flushed and rosy, the white had disappeared and the polished look as well. Even her hair was glowing, a gold like ripe corn that drew every man's eye within a hundred yards. I walked close to her, and saw her face – saw her eyes. They were not human, John. Beautiful … the colours of the iris were nearly iridescent, but not human."

"She was hunting alone, and sleeping alone, because that's the way the old ones did it. Several vampires might share a city, and know of each other, but they didn't hunt together, not in Europe, not even as recently as 1955. James clued me in somewhat. He was a hunter too; his family had been hunters through the centuries. I didn't get all of his history, but enough to know that he knew what he was doing. He wanted to use me for bait, to get Isolde. To keep her distracted when he drugged her with the dead man's blood and then killed her. I was game for it, god knows why – young and stupid, I suppose – so that's what we did."

John watched him toss the rest of the whiskey back, lean forward, pour himself another.

"So, the next night I went up to her, while she was holding court among the Russian and Czech and Slovak soldiers, all young men, all willing to die to be noticed by her, although I don't suppose they'd have been that keen if they'd known that they really were going to die. She took a liking to me, I think, and we spent the rest of the evening together. She liked the pretence, socialising, going to dinner and not eating anything, pretending that she did. Heads turned wherever we went and I could see that was what she wanted, to be noticed like that, fawned over, lusted after, I guess."

He looked down at the whiskey, glowing amber in the glass. "It was getting late, and she took me to her rooms, and they were … unbelievable … crammed with everything she'd bought or been given, dresses everywhere, every possible fashion since she'd been made." His gaze lifted to John. "She'd already decided to feed on me, and she bragged about her life, her victims. She'd been made in 1698, she said, by an old vampire from Spain. When he'd tired of her, he'd left and she'd moved east, at first terrified by the chaos and change as each century passed, but becoming more used to it as she got older, more experienced, more powerful."

Shaking his head, he continued and John could hear the sense of disbelief tingeing his voice, faint but still there as Daniel looked back at the memory.

"She moved like a ghost – you couldn't see it, she would be by the window one minute, and sitting next to you a second later, not a curl out of place. She could hear the mice in the wainscotting in the house at the end of the street, and the blood rushing through my veins from the other side of the room. And she was strong," Daniel said, emphasising the word. "When she held me down, I couldn't move, not an inch, her strength was like being bound in steel cables. When she had fed, she could pass as human, barely. Her eyes were too vivid, her beauty too intoxicating, but men will see what they want to, when it comes to a woman."

"She told me it wouldn't hurt, but of course it hurt like hell. She'd just begun to feed when James came in and pumped a syringe of dead man's blood into her. She fell back, her teeth retracted and she passed out, looking like a beautiful young woman, instead of the monster she was."

Daniel tossed back the rest of the whiskey in the glass, and held the empty glass, his gaze slightly unfocussed. "James cut off her head and we burned her body outside of the city that night. And I realised that the world was not as I'd thought it to be. There were things that couldn't be explained by science, couldn't be managed through faith. When I got home, I started to look around, for the signs that I knew would be there. Everyone had immigrated when America was opened to the masses, the vampires would have come too."

"But they weren't as powerful as the European vampires?" John stared at him, wondering how many that beautiful vampire had killed, over the centuries. How many more were like her?

"No, they were much younger, in most cases, very young, a couple of decades at most. Barely aware of the powers they might have later on."

"And the one who got away? He was a couple of hundred years old?"

"Luther? Yeah, that's what he told me. Born after the Revolution." Daniel shook his head. "Even he didn't realise his powers, his maker must have gone or died before teaching him. The bond between the master and fledgling seems to be deep, like a resurrection, most fledglings will do anything for their master and the master keeps them close, protects them and teaches them, sends them out to bring back victims."

"Why aren't we overrun with vampires, if making them is so easy?" John asked, his brows drawing together as he considered the population.

"It's not that easy," Daniel said with a shrug. "The vampire has to know what he or she's doing, they have to drain almost every drop of blood from the fledgling but not kill them, and then give it all back, trusting that the fledgling will not drain them to death itself. I'm not entirely sure of the way they choose their get, but there has to be a helluva trust there, before they begin. Or some other hold over each other that keeps the status quo. Vampires are loyal to their own kind to a certain degree," Daniel elaborated slowly. "But the personality that they had when they were human? That doesn't get changed. Someone who's short-sighted and greedy doesn't gain any wisdom in becoming immortal."

He straightened up and poured more whiskey into his glass, waving the bottle invitingly at John. "Come on, you're falling behind."

John finished his glassful and held out the glass for a refill. The vampire hunter leaned back in the chair and looked at him thoughtfully.

"All right, so what's your story, John? I've told you all of mine."

John sighed, looking into the dark golden depths of the liquid in his glass. "Fair enough."

* * *

"So you're hunting – a demon?" Daniel looked at him, his eyes slightly unfocussed as he leaned forward.

"That's what I've been told." John shrugged. It was twenty past four in the morning, and his voice was rasping slightly from talking for so long.

"To what end?" Daniel frowned at him. "Send it back to Hell?"

John shook his head. "No. To kill it. If I can ever figure how to do that."

Daniel leaned back suddenly, his expression speculative. "And if there was a weapon, that could kill a demon – or any creature for that matter?"

John raised his head slowly, looking into Daniel's face. "Do you know of a weapon like that, Daniel?"

Elkins shook his head slightly. "There's a story, John. About a man named Samuel Colt. A long time ago, in Wyoming, the story goes that this Samuel Colt was a hunter. And he made a gun. A very special gun."

John straightened up. "Do you know this story, Daniel?"

"I do, John."

"Well, tell me."

"Alright." He tipped the last of the whiskey into his glass, fingers curling around it as he took another swallow. "Supposedly, Samuel Colt was born in 1814. He moved out west when he was in his thirties, working on the railroads sometimes, sometimes preaching. He was born in England, one of the younger sons of some aristocrat's house. Well-educated, and well-spoken. Came out in his twenties and just kept on heading west until he hit the Rockies."

"He stopped in a town called Sunrise, up in Wyoming. Must have had a couple of screws loose by then because he built five churches outside of the town, all joined by railway lines."

He watched John's face to see if he got the significance of that, shaking his head slightly when John frowned at him. "Railway lines built of iron, John. No demon can cross a line of iron."

"Colt was a demon hunter?"

"Not sure about that, but churches and iron, surrounding a particular piece of land, land that the native Americans shunned because they said that evil ghosts dwelled there … well, it kind of gets the curiosity going."

"Anyway, he finished the churches and he finished the railways, and he retired, according to the story. He built himself a small cabin about twenty miles from town and kept himself to himself, mostly."

"That's it?" John looked at him, feeling a certainty that Daniel knew a lot more than he was telling, drunk or not. If there were a weapon, a weapon that could not send a demon back to Hell but destroy it completely, once and for all ... he had to find it, he had to have it.

"Hell, no. Colt couldn't retire, not after all the creatures he'd put away over the years. He was forever being attacked at his place, and he decided that he needed something decisive, something that would keep him safe until he'd finished his work – whatever that was."

"So he built a gun?"

"Right. Patented it in 1835. A six shot revolver that took special bullets." Daniel stared at John. "This gun could kill anything."

"Anything?" John heard the doubt in his voice. "Like what?"

"Like anything!" Daniel looked out of the window, seeing the pearly edge of dawn against the sharp outlines of the mountains to the east. "Anything supernatural. Anything unnatural. Probably anything natural as well, but specifically it could kill demons, vampires, things that are hard to kill in other ways."

"Is this story real?" John asked impatiently, squashing the hope he felt rising in his chest.

"Yeah, it's real all right." Elkins tossed back the last swallow. "The only problem is that no one knows where the gun is now. It disappeared when Colt died, and hasn't been found since."

"Then how do you know it's real?"

"On my father's side, we had an ancestor who lived in Sunrise, Wyoming." Daniel gestured at the shelving that ran along one wall of the room. "He ran a saloon in the town. His diaries say that the Colt was real. That Samuel was real. That gun killed a monster in 1861, right in Sunrise. He saw it with his own eyes."

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as the whiskey hit him. "It's real, John. And the story says Samuel Colt used it to kill demons. But the trick is going to be finding it."

John stood abruptly, walking to the shelving that Daniel had indicated. He walked slowly along the length of the shelves, his eyes running over the titles. On the fourth shelf from the floor, at the far end, he saw a collection of journals, bound in leather and paper, tucked in between volumes on geology and geography. He pulled them out, one by one, reading the first few pages of each. He stopped when he saw the date and place on the last one. 1860. Sunrise, Wyoming. Glancing back at Elkins, he opened the journal and started to read.

When he finished he sat still for a long time, aware that his pulse was racing, his thoughts had become a chaotic maelstrom in his head. A gun that could kill demons. Really kill them.

* * *

Daniel woke three hours later, his head pounding like a sledge hammer. Damn, it had been a long time since he'd courted that particular affliction. He sat up slowly in the chair, and looked around the room. It was empty. Then he heard the slight clatter from the kitchen, and got up carefully.

The sunlight poured in through the kitchen windows, and he lowered his gaze, lifting an arm to cover his eyes.

John turned around, watching the man's slow progress across the room with a half-smile.

"Hair of the dog?"

"Yeah, two or three." Daniel felt his way along the table until he came to a chair back and pulled it out, sitting down gingerly.

John put a glass down in front of him. "Snow's stopped and the temperature's up. Looks like we'll be able to get through now. I can drive down, if you want to sleep that off on the way."

Daniel shuddered as the whiskey hit his stomach. "Food first, then yeah, we'd better get down. Yesterday's forecast said there'd be more snow today."

"All right. Breakfast coming up." John turned away, his glance flicking unnoticed to his bag which sat under the table. He'd copied out the relevant points of information from the Elkin journal. He had a new direction to follow now. And a lot more information to get sorted out.


	3. Chapter 3 Possession

**Chapter 3 Possession**

* * *

"_No one wants to believe in evil, really, above all, not in an evil being, an evil spirit. Everyone wants to abolish the idea. To admit the existence of evil means a responsibility, and no one wants that responsibility.__That is the opening __through which the evil spirit crawls,__stilling all suspicions, making everything seem normal and natural.__This is the 'thought', the unwariness of the ordinary human being__which amounts to a disinclination to believe in evil.__And if you do not believe in evil, how can you believe in__or ever know what good is?"_

_~ Father Malachi Martin, Roman Catholic Priest_

* * *

_**1986. North Oak, Nebraska.**_

"Dad, I'm hungry," Dean said loudly from the back seat of the Impala.

"Me too, me too," Sammy's voice piped up. Almost three, he was his brother's shadow and mirror, endlessly copying whatever the older boy did. John was relieved to see that it wasn't irritating Dean today.

He nodded, keeping his gaze on the road. "All right, next place we see, we'll stop."

"But I'm hungry now," Dean said, looking at his father's eyes reflected in the rear view mirror.

"Do you see a store or a restaurant here, Dean?" John glanced back over his shoulder.

"No."

"Then you'll have to wait until we do see someplace that has food," he said, forcing a patient tone into his voice. He didn't blame them, they'd been on the road since dawn, driving south, and there hadn't been much in the way of distractions. He looked down at the open map on the seat beside him. Didn't seem to be much in the way of them ahead of them either.

He flicked a glance into the mirror, and saw that Dean had turned back to the window, while Sam's attention was once again occupied with the toy soldier jammed into the ashtray on the armrest.

The houses were few and far between along the two lane blacktop; mostly the scenery consisted of flat fields, small rivers and ponds, copses of leafless aspen and birch. He barely noticed the silvered exterior of the building as they approached, and would have driven straight by it if not for his son's anguished shout.

"Dad! There's a place there!"

John's head snapped to the right and he braked, bringing the Impala to a halt about two hundred yards past the gravel drive. He twisted around, looking back through the rear window. Not a car in sight. He shifted to reverse and Sam and Dean both got onto their knees, leaning against the back of the seat, enjoying the novelty of the rear window becoming the windshield, however briefly.

John spun the wheel as they passed the drive and shifted into first, pulling into the parking lot and parking in front of the narrow wooden porch. He looked up at the sign above the building, the paint already starting to fade and peel a little. Harvelle's Roadhouse.

Well, maybe they'd have something to eat. He could get a beer, and wash some of the road dust from his throat. Dean had already scrambled out of the car, with Sam huffing along behind him.

John got out of the car, and followed the boys onto the porch. Dean was waiting by the door.

"Is it shut, Dad?"

John could hear the lurking anticipation of disappointment in his sweet, high child's voice. He reached past the boys and turned the knob, grateful when it turned easily under his hand and the door swung open. The interior was shadowy, the walls panelled in a dark wood, the furniture and fittings made from the same wood – or stained the same colour. A small u-shaped bar took up the centre of the room, opposite the door, a dozen small tables were arranged to either side of it. To the left, a raised section of floor held a full sized pool table, and another four small tables.

The woman behind the bar was in her late twenties, he thought, with long, straight hair, loose around her shoulders, in an intriguing shade of chestnut. She turned to the door as they came in, smiling widely at the boys when they scrambled up on to the stools that fronted the bar. In a simple dress with a thick cardigan over it, John could also see that she was very pregnant, her face glowing the same way Mary's had when she'd been carrying Sam.

"What can I get you?" she asked, dividing her attention between the boys and John.

"We're hungry," Dean announced peremptorily, turning to his father. "Can we have burgers?"

The woman raised a brow at him. "Good to see they know what they want," she said with a slight smile.

John looked down at his sons, then back at the woman. "Do you do burgers?"

"Sure," she said, taking an order pad from the pocket of her apron. "Best burgers in the state."

"Uh huh." John turned to Sam. "Do you want a burger, Sam?"

Sam nodded. Whatever Dean was having, he wanted it too. Whether he could eat it or not.

John stepped closer to the bar. "One cheeseburger, one with everything, and a half a plain burger for that one."

"And fries, Dad? Can we have fries too?" Dean could see the baskets hanging in the kitchen through the narrow service hatch. "Can we?"

"And two serves of fries, with ketchup," he added. "Oh, and a beer and two lemon sodas. Thanks."

She nodded and turned away, taking the order to the kitchen, and stretching a little to put it up on the order rack. Walking back to the bar, she glanced over at the man and two boys as she drew the sodas into tall glasses, adding ice and straws and putting them in front of the boys. The beer came from the fridge behind the counter, ice-cold and beaded with condensation as she set the bottle on the bar in front of John. "I'm Ellen Harvelle." She held her hand out, and John reached over the bar to shake it.

"John Winchester. And this is Dean" He put his hand on Dean's shoulder, "and Sam."

"Good to meet you boys." Ellen smiled. "Just get a table anywhere; I'll bring your food when it's ready. Won't take long."

"Uh …" John's glance dipped to the round curve of her belly. "That's okay, just give a call and I'll get it from here?"

"No, no. I'm fine, not even due for another three weeks. You go and sit down."

He scooped Sam and Dean from their stools, carrying them both under his arms to a table by the window and depositing them without too much gentleness into the wooden chairs. He sat down and looked at them. "Okay, I know it's been a long day, and you've been cooped up in the car for a while, but you have to behave yourselves while we're here." John shifted his gaze to Dean. "Got your word on that, son?"

Dean looked into his face, seeing the seriousness there. He knew what that meant. Zero tolerance for anything that happened, accidental or not. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

He got up and returned to the bar for their drinks, putting them down on the table and sitting down again. The place was more than quiet, he thought, looking around. It was completely empty. They were the only customers. He wondered briefly how on earth Ellen made ends meet.

She was as good as her word, bringing out the burgers and fries less than ten minutes later. Dean and Sam started eating immediately, competing not too subtly as to who could finish first. John looked up at Ellen as she lingered for a moment by the table.

"If you don't mind me asking, what brings you here?"

John looked down at his food. "Just passing through, really."

"I don't mean to pry," she said, beginning to turn away. John sighed inwardly.

"No, sorry, it's all right. I'm just out of practice talking to adults," he said quickly, smiling as she turned back. "We're taking the long way home, kind of a road trip."

She looked at him, and he had the feeling that she'd seen through that lie easily. "Uh huh."

A man came through the front door as John cast around for something more believable, and Ellen turned away. The man was tall, wide-shouldered, wheat-blonde hair cut short, dark brown eyes crinkling as he looked at Ellen.

"John, this is my husband, Bill." She turned back to him, as Bill's arm encircled her waist. "Bill, this is John. He's passing through with his boys."

"Good to meet you, John." Bill stretched out a hand and John stood up, taking it. He felt the strength in the long fingers, in the play of the muscles of the arm. He knew that Bill felt the same in his grip. The other man looked at him, a fresh curiosity in his eyes.

* * *

Standing in the doorway to the back room, Ellen watched her husband as he picked up two cases of beer, muscles flexing powerfully in his back and shoulders when he straightened. Her hand slid down the bulging curve of her stomach, feeling the movements deep inside and she smiled a little. Damned man turns me on even when I'm about to give birth, she thought wryly.

"So? What do you think of him?" she asked, as Bill turned around.

"He seems like a nice enough fella." Bill would have shrugged but for the weight in his arms. "Strong grip, not a desk type."

"He checked the place out when he came in, Bill," she said, remembering. "Not like a civilian."

"Ellen, you think everyone is a hunter." He sighed and walked past her, out to the main room and behind the bar.

Ellen frowned behind him. "I do not. And that woman did turn out to be one."

"Yeah, she did. But the other three weren't." Bill set the cases down behind the bar, lowering his voice. "You can't just go up to him and ask him, he'll take off."

"I know that, you ass." Ellen turned awkwardly as she came through the hatch behind him. "Just call Jim. Ask him if he knows, all right?"

"Yeah, okay." He ripped open the box and starting unloading the bottles into the fridge.

Ellen looked at the man sitting with his two sons at the table by the window. She didn't know why it felt important to her, to find out, to know, but it did and she'd learned a long time ago to listen to her gut instincts about people.

* * *

She stood next to the desk as Bill talked on the phone, her expression just short of triumphant as he hung up.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, you were right," he said, the one-sided smile rueful as he stood up and walked around the desk to her.

"Told you so." She stood sideways next to him, her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest, warm against the soft flannel of his shirt. Bill put his arms around her, his hand resting lightly against the curve.

"Doesn't exactly help with the next bit," he said softly, leaning his chin on the top of her head.

"What did Jim say?"

"Said that John Winchester went to Blue Earth in '83. Was staying with some friends there. Wanted to become a hunter because a demon had killed his wife, burned down their home." He felt Ellen flinch against him and his arms tightened slightly around her.

"He started hunting, with Deke. They found a shifter case, and Deke was killed. The shifter somehow got back to his friends' house and killed them before he could get there. He killed the shifter, and then he left with his boys. Jim said that the Tasarovs found him, trying to hunt a crocotta in North Dakota on his own, palled up with them. And Elkins told him that John had been for a visit a couple of months ago."

Ellen shook her head. "Poor man." She tilted her head up, looking at Bill. "A demon attack, on his wife? In his home? That doesn't sound …"

He nodded. "I know."

"And then losing his friends …" The words trailed away as she thought of how hard this life was, of her worry, now especially, when Bill was gone, that he wouldn't come back, or that he would but he wouldn't be the same cheerful and loving husband.

She'd been a hunter before she'd met him, driven into it when a werewolf had shown up at her father's farm, killing the livestock first, then her father one night when he'd been down in the fields, trying to protect the last of their herd. She'd heard the howling, the night of the full moon, heard his screams as he'd been ripped apart. She'd been a child, fourteen and a half, with two younger brothers to protect, their mother lying long in her grave, had died in childbirth.

She'd watched the woods that bordered the farm for weeks, and on the next full moon she'd seen it, a monster out of nightmare. The memory still had the power to bring to bring an icy sweat to her skin.

She'd tried to find out about it at the library, but had been forced to books of fiction when the non-fiction failed to give her any real information. She took her mother's jewellery to Frank Alberon, the gunsmith in town and he'd made six silver bullets for her, .45s to fit her father's service revolver. She'd practised through the day with the big gun, far too big for her small hands and slender arms, getting used to the kick, to the roar of it. And the next full moon she'd been ready and waiting, in a hide in the field with the last two of her sheep grazing nearby, bait for the monster.

In a way, she thought, it had been an act of desperation. She still hadn't quite believed that it could be real, could be what she thought it was. A creature of mythology, of legend, of books and movies. But when its eyes, lit up from within, lambent with evil, had looked into hers, she'd pulled the trigger and seen the big hole blossom against the chest. In the moonlight, the blood had been black as she'd stood there and watched the beast transform back into a man – a man she knew from church, from town.

She shook her head, and pushed away the past. The life was a hard one. Hard to live, hard to forget. Harder still with two small children to look after.

* * *

Bill stood by the bar and watched John thoughtfully as he polished the glasses. Ellen was right, the man did have a quality about him, an alertness that belied the easy way he talked to his sons, listened to them.

The front door opened and his glance flicked to the man who entered automatically. He was a slim, wiry man, somewhere in his thirties, already losing his hair, which he reached up and patted frequently, as if to check that it was still there. His face was long and narrow, the chin receding, dark shadows like bruises pouched under his eyes. His nose was crooked, beaky, and slightly red, and Bill sighed as he recognised the tells of an alcoholic.

"What can I get you?" He smiled, setting down the glass and leaning on the bar. The man walked jerkily toward him, as if he'd forgotten how precisely to use his legs, hands fluttering at his sides.

From the corner of his eye, Bill saw John turn, his eyes narrowing slightly as he followed the man's progress across the floor.

"Well, I'd actually like to see your whore wife on a fucking cross," the man said conversationally, reaching the edge of the wooden countertop.

The words took a second to sink in, and Bill's eyes widened as he watched the eyes of the man disappear in a flat sheen of black. The man blinked and the normal irises reappeared, a watery blue, surrounded by thin red capillaries.

Bill backed away, toward the hatch and the office, where the Bible was kept. His mind was spinning in disbelief; no demon had ever come here, had ever known about this place.

"Bill, what have you done with -" Ellen came out of the office, her head down, looking at something in her hands. Bill snapped his head around, the warning rising in his throat, cut off by the rising laughter of the demon in front of the bar.

"There you are, missy!" it crowed, taking long strides around the perimeter of the bar. "And I thought I was going to have to cut open your dearly beloved to find you!"

Ellen looked up at the creature as it rounded the corner of the bar, and without hesitation she drew back her arm and threw the five pound jar of pickled eggs at it, as hard as she could.

The jar connected with a crack, falling to the floor and exploding at the demon's feet in a spray of glass shards, pickled brine and dark green eggs. The demon staggered back, one foot stepping on the liquid and sliding out from under it, arms waving as it fell backwards on to the floor.

"Ellen, get the Bible!" Bill shouted, vaulting over the bar and landing to one side of the man on the floor. She nodded and turned, running awkwardly back to the office.

Bill grabbed the man's jacket, yanking him to his feet. He looked up as a shadow passed him, and saw John Winchester standing beside him, hand clamped tightly around one of the man's arms as he turned him and gripped the other, pressing both tightly behind his back.

"Behind the pool table," Bill gasped, dragging the demon away from the bar. "Trap."

The demon began to struggle as the two men pulled and dragged and pushed it toward the big pool table, its vessel losing blood, losing brain from the deep fracture in its skull, and it had some trouble with the synapses, making them open, then close, instructing the body's muscle to expand and contract.

"Hurry!" Bill yanked it up the steps to the raised level, and John shoved hard from behind, putting his weight under the man, half-lifting him up. Bill staggered backwards as the demon thrust against him, mercifully still using only the body's strength, as if it had forgotten how to fight with the powers of the mind. The thought flashed through his mind the demon held in this human must have been young, not yet fully taught, and it was followed by a question as to why that should be.

John's face was red as he heaved the body past the table. Bill looked up, and released the man's body, stepping back, shoulders slumping as his breath rasped harshly in his throat. John's expression dissolved into shock, his hands still gripped tightly around the arms of the demon's meatsuit.

Bill shook his head. "It's in the trap, you can let go now."

He looked up, and back, watching John's gaze follow his own, staring at the archaic circle and symbols painted on the ceiling above them.

"What –" John looked back at him, his questions written on his face.

"Later, I'll explain it later, okay?" Bill said, feeling his lungs and heart settling back down to more steady rhythms. "Ellen?"

He looked at the door to the hall that led back to the office just as Ellen came through it, the big, heavy, old-fashioned Bible in her hands. She was panting a little, as she walked toward them.

On the floor, under the trap, the demon watched them through the eyes of its human captive, its mouth stretched out widely in an impossible rictus.

"Oh, an exorcism – aren't I the lucky one?" It scuttled around the boundaries of the trap, leering at Ellen as it passed her.

"Well, you can just go back to Hell," she said, lip curling in a show of contempt, designed to hide the flutter of fear in her chest. Her hand slid down her belly protectively and she moved around the outside of the invisible circle leaving a good margin between herself and the demon inside.

"Oh, you have no idea, do you, little slut!" The demon crouched in the centre of the circle, its head turning as its eyes followed her around. "The things I could tell you about your darling –,"

"You won't have the time, hellspawn," Bill cut it off. "Why are you here?"

"To make merry, murder and mayhem, not necessarily in that order," the demon giggled. "To rid you of your worldly burdens and deliver you to Wrath who will eat, sleep and fornicate with you forever more."

Bill glanced at John, who had moved to stand between his sons and the demon that was trapped in the circle above, his face was pale with shock, the dark brown irises darkened to almost black beneath drawn brows.

"They never talk straight, so don't expect it," Bill said quietly. He turned his attention back to the demon. "If you've got nothing useful to say, then you might as well be on your way."

"A poet who don't know it!" The demon grinned at him. "I can talk straight, although it's so boring it's barely worth the effort."

It turned to John. "This confused and frightened man saw the Boss, the big boss, but not the Biggest Boss, burn up his darling in the pale blue and white room with the pretty windows. He holds wrath in his heart, and fear and doubt and all manner of things that will send him to the hot place, down under, where we all live."

Bill watched John close his eyes, turn away. "Why are you here?" he repeated, opening the Bible to the back, where the church's ritual for exorcism had been carefully handwritten.

"To kill, carouse and kick back!" The demon scuttled around the circle again, to face him. "Take the wife, take the babe, destroy his life, those were the orders, yes, they were, and so close, so close but now I can return to the sweet stench of brimstone, to the roaring flame and the funeral pyres that only grow and grow and grow!"

_"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, hic servus Domini facit hocligandi atque insidias Diaboli, hoc …"_

The demon arched backwards suddenly, the scream that came from its mouth rupturing several of the blood vessels in the body's throat, sending a fine spray of blood and spittle over the floor.

_"_…_hoc daemone. Eieci te de creatura malumcreatura tenebra. Eieci te de creatura contra infernum. Invocamus Dei virtutem, et potestatem et virtutem coeli angelis qui hoc ad obligandumnuntios Dei daemon perdere essentiam ..."_

Bill kept his eyes on the page, reading the Latin text steadily, as the demon in front of him began to convulse and contort. His gaze flicked sideways to John, seeing his open mouth, the sweat beading on his forehead, his fists clenched by his sides. He looked back to the text.

_"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, hic servus Domini facit hocligandi atque insidias Diaboli, hoc daemone. Eieci te de creatura malumcreatura tenebra. Eieci te de creatura contra infernum. Invocamus Dei virtutem, et potestatem et virtutem coeli angelis qui hoc ad obligandumnuntios Dei daemon perdere essentiam."_

"NO! NO! NO! NO! _NO! NO!_" The body began to rise, a few inches from the floor at first, then higher, revolving slowly in the air. With each repetition of the ritual, the acute convulsions increased, the hands and feet jittering and jangling at the end of the limbs.

_"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, hic servus Domini facit hocligandi atque insidias Diaboli, hoc daemone. Eieci te de creatura malumcreatura tenebra. Eieci te de creatura contra infernum. Invocamus Dei virtutem, et potestatem et virtutem coeli angelis qui hoc ad obligandumnuntios Dei daemon perdere essentiam."_

"I'll tell you everything, everything I know!" The demon's face stared at him, upside down now, blood dripping to the floor from the head wound and the tears in its throat.

Bill looked at it, watching the tremble of the muscles, as the ritual removed the hooks that held its essence to the flesh. "I don't believe you know anything worthwhile."

_"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, hic servus Domini facit hocligandi atque insidias Diaboli, hoc daemone. Eieci te de creatura malumcreatura tenebra. Eieci te de creatura contra infernum. Invocamus Dei virtutem, et potestatem et virtutem coeli angelis qui hoc ad obligandumnuntios Dei daemon perdere essentiam."_

It threw back its head and a thick column of charcoal smoke poured from the mouth, spiralling up to the centre of the trap above. The drunk's body, empty now, hung suspended in the air for a second longer, then fell to the ground with an ugly crunch.

Ellen turned away, one hand over her mouth as her other curved around the baby she carried. John looked up at the painted trap on the ceiling, unable to process either the reality of the demon, or its expulsion. Bill closed the Bible, and stepped into the circle, gently lifting the man's head to one side, seeing the lifeless eyes, glazed in death. He lowered it to the floor and stepped away, setting the Bible on the pool table as he walked to his wife and put his arms around her.

John finally lowered his eyes, belatedly remembering his sons. They were still huddled beneath the table in the corner, Dean's arms tightly closed around Sam, their eyes as wide as saucers.

Bill watched him step down to the main floor level, long strides devouring the distance between them. He saw them emerge from beneath the table, and be enveloped in their father's arms, their faces buried against his chest.

"What did it mean, Bill?" Ellen's voice was muffled against him, and he bent his head closer to her. "What did it mean about killing me and the baby?"

Bill shook his head. "I don't know, honey. I don't know."

* * *

John picked up the glass and drank, the warmth of the whiskey scouring his throat and settling into his stomach.

"And that was a demon?" He looked from Bill to Ellen. Bill nodded.

"That was a possession," Bill clarified. "The demon took over a human who was weak, someone who didn't have good mental or physical defences."

Ellen had made up the spare room and John's two boys were sleeping peacefully in the double bed there. They'd closed the bar as soon as the two men had carried the body out, dumping it in a pile of refuse behind the building and soaking it in gasoline, then burning it.

"But you knew about it, and it knew about you." John stared at Bill, seeing for the first time the lines of worry that were beginning to etch into the other man's face. He seemed older now.

Bill shrugged, his mouth twisting. "I've been hunting demons for a while now. Since about '72." He looked at John. "I was in Vietnam from '69 to '71. I saw a lot of strange stuff there, a lot of bad stuff." He shied away from the memories, pushing them back. "When I got home, I thought it would disappear, you know, everything would be the same as before I went, but it wasn't."

He took a breath and Ellen covered his hand with her own. "My best friend tried to kill me a month after I got back. His eyes – well, they were just like the eyes you saw here today, black, from one side to the other, no iris, as if the pupil just expanded and took over the whole eye."

He picked up his glass and sipped at the whiskey. "I had no clue what was going on. I came up with every explanation and justification in the book, but none of it could stick. So I went down to Columbus' library and I started reading. And then, it started to make sense. At least to me. Because a lot of what I'd seen, a lot of what I'd seen done over there, had explanations, just not the normal rational ones."

John thought about his own experiences in the jungles on the far side of the world. There had been a lot of bad stuff going on. He hadn't seen it first hand, thank god, but he heard about it, he'd talked to those who had.

"The thing about possession, John, is that the victim has to have a weakness, some chink in the armour that allows the demon to gain access. Might be the way they feel about themselves, might be something that happened to them, or guilt, or alcohol or drugs, but there's always something, some part of them that gives consent, even if it's only a tacit consent." He took a breath, letting it out slowly. "A strong mind and a strong body doesn't allow access. But there just aren't many people with that kind of protection around anymore."

"What do they want?" John asked, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer.

Ellen answered for Bill. "They want to be out of Hell, mainly. They want to be up here, messing with people, killing people." She shrugged. "They want people to be their puppets."

Bill nodded slowly. "More than that, they want to open the way from Hell onto earth – onto our plane, our realm." He looked around the bar absently. "For a long, long time they were trapped down there, unable to do more than whisper through the cracks to us. But I have a theory that with each mass killing, every time humanity initiates or perpetuates genocide, in particular, although any really big catastrophe, where there are a lot of deaths at the same time, seems to do the job as well … a gate opens, to Hell. And the demons come through."

"Genocide? Like Uganda? Cambodia?" John frowned, thinking of all the atrocities that had been committed over the past hundred years – and before that.

"And Auschwitz and Siberia, the decimation of the native American Indians and the spread of the Black Death through Europe. Major, monstrous events that wiped out hundreds of thousands."

"Each event opens a gate." John looked at him.

"And each gate, big or small, lets more demons to this plane. Yeah." Bill sighed, tossing back the rest of the drink. "The more demons who can walk here among us, the more chance of further atrocities, of the population losing its faith, forgetting what it means to be human."

John shook his head. "What about the demon who attacked Mary? Why would it come to us?"

"I don't know, John. Figuring out demon motivations, aside from the obvious ones, is nearly impossible." Bill looked at him, his face filled with concern. "And it doesn't sound like the usual ones."

John looked into his glass, thinking about the gun Elkins had told him of. "Bill, have you ever heard of a weapon that can kill a demon? Not send it back to Hell, but kill it completely, for good?"

Bill's eyes narrowed slightly. "Elkin's tell you about Samuel Colt?"

"Yeah." John looked up at him, one side of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. "Is it true?"

"Elkin's the main authority on it. He says it is." He reached for the bottle, pouring another inch into his glass. "I don't know how you'd find it, where you'd look even."

John nodded. "Yeah."

Ellen straightened and stood up slowly, stretching out her back. "This conversation is depressing the crap out of me, and that can't be good for the baby. You two have fun, I'm going to bed."

John stood at the same time as Bill. "Goodnight, Ellen."

"You okay, honey?" Bill looked at her face, noticing the shadows around her eyes. She smiled at him, and touched his face with her palm.

"I'm fine, just tired, which is not unusual." She lifted her head and he bent to kiss her. "Goodnight, John. I'm sure glad you were here today."

The two men, much of a height, and build, one fair, the other dark, watched her go. When Bill heard the door to the stairs close, he turned back to the table and sat down again. John sat as well, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face as he tried to take in everything he'd seen and learned today.

"Where did you learn about that?" He glanced at the ceiling behind the pool table.

Bill followed the look, smiling. "That is a demon trap from the Key of Solomon." He took in John's uncomprehending look. "It's a book, supposedly written by King Solomon – yeah, _that_ King Solomon – describing the arts of compelling demons to do your bidding. Not a very wise thing to do, but times were obviously different then – or maybe not."

"And it works," John said wonderingly. "It kept the demon inside the circle while you exorcised it."

"Yeah." Bill lifted an eyebrow at him. "You need to make copies of the book – there's a lot of stuff in it that you need to know about, need to be able to do without having to look it up."

John nodded. "Are there other things like that? Traps? Spells?"

"Plenty. The tricky part is working out which is kosher and which is crap." He sipped his whiskey, watching the other man consideringly. "There's a lot of wishful thinking out there, especially relating to demons, John. People have a disturbing tendency to lie to themselves when it comes to going after what they want – or think they want. Demons lie, all the time, they can read us, to some extent anyway, see what's in our minds, in our hearts. They'll mix the truth in as well, if it will hurt you more."

"I saw 'The Exorcist', Bill," John said, the smile humourless. "And I've even read Milton and Dante, and Goethe, although they weren't as helpful as I'd hoped for."

Bill laughed, shaking his head. "No, nothing is really. Demons feed off pain and chaos, they drink it and eat it like gourmands. When you deal with them, you have to have your crap locked away, your mind clear, or they'll twist your thoughts, your doubts and fears, even your memories, to make you suffer."

"Truth is our best weapon, trust our strongest armour." He looked at the bottle on the table and turned away. "Most of us can't claim to have been perfectly truthful our whole lives. There's always some mistake or slip up or outright cluster fuck that we don't want others to know about, but the more truthful you can be, with the people closest to you, with yourself, the better off you are, the more protected you are."

John thought about that. It was, as Bill had said, a tough gig. Guilt lay in wait for him for over a dozen events in his life, things he was ashamed of, or that he'd just done plain wrong. He pushed the memories aside.

"You differentiated between the term 'demon' and 'possession' before, why?"

Bill rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Demons can be present without a vessel – without a human meatsuit. But usually they'll possess someone. That someone will still be in there, trapped in their head and body by the demon. It's something we have to be careful of when we hunt them, John. There's a person inside that body, and the first priority after staying alive, is to get the demon out, to send it back to Hell, without destroying the body, without killing the poor bastard who's stuck in there."

John's face crumpled slightly as the implications of that thought hit through to him. He couldn't think of a worse torture than being trapped in his mind, slave and subject to another's will, another's lusts and cruelty. He nodded slowly, filing away the information in his memories, shaking a little.

"I've got to hit the hay." Bill stood up, rolling his shoulders as he felt the stiffness settling into the muscles. "Stick around, for a couple of days, John. We can find this demon of yours, I know it, but you need a lot more knowledge than you have now, and you need help."

John stood as well, lifting his glass and tipping the remainder of the alcohol into his mouth.

"You're right, on both counts. I'd like to stay for a few days, Bill. Thanks."

* * *

The air was crisp, the sunshine still the thin, pale sunshine of winter, but with perhaps just a little more warmth in it today. Behind the roadhouse, the grey and brown fields rolled away for miles, dotted here and there with the shimmering reflections of blue sky in the ponds and marshes.

John set the bottles out carefully, balancing them on the fence's edge, so that they would fall if hit. He finished and turned back to his son, standing quietly thirty feet away, holding the .22 rifle awkwardly in his small hands, his fingers well away from the trigger.

John walked back to Dean and stood behind him, crouching down so that their eyes were at the same level. He reached around the boy's body and moved Dean's hands to where they needed to be on the barrel and trigger, settling the stock firmly against the small shoulder.

"Okay, this is how to hold it. It will give a little kick when you pull the trigger, that's the force of the bullet going along the barrel and exiting the end."

Dean nodded, a warm rush of feeling, at the seriousness in his father's voice, the comfort of the big arms around him, filling him. He was listening hard to the instructions.

"You see the little notch at the end of the barrel?" John reached forward and pointed to the sight.

"Yeah."

"That's the sight. You put that over what you want the bullet to hit, and that's where the bullet goes." John moved slightly to the side, looking at how Dean was holding the gun. "Just look along the barrel and put the sight over the first bottle."

Dean nodded, lifting the barrel a little higher, until he could see the bottle behind the notch.

"Good. Now, put your finger through the trigger guard and rest it on the trigger."

John watched as the boy's finger found the trigger, resting loosely there. "Okay, now we're going keep the bottle behind the sight," he paused, waiting until Dean had lifted the barrel slightly again, "And now we squeeze the trigger gently, so that it's smooth."

Dean felt the resistance as he tightened his finger against the smooth curve of metal. The sight was wobbling a little over the bottle as he struggled to maintain the height and pull the trigger smoothly. Then he found it, the point where the resistance eased and the little muscles in his finger tightened slowly.

The .22's sound was a flat crack, startlingly loud in the silence. A dozen ducks rose flapping and quacking from a nearby pond in protest, as he looked over the barrel to where the bottle had been. It was gone.

"Great job, Dean, that was very smooth. Do you want to try the next one?"

Dean nodded, turning his upper body slightly to bring the sight over the next bottle in the line. He felt the trigger resistance ease and squeezed, and the flat crack wasn't nearly as loud to his ears this time. The second bottle had disappeared as well.

"I think you might be a natural at this, son," John's voice was filled with pride and warmth, and Dean grinned at him, basking in it.

The remaining four bottles were all knocked down, and he felt a stab of disappointment as his father took the gun from him, crouching down next to him.

"That was perfect, Dean. I think we've done enough for today, but do you want to practise again tomorrow?"

Dean felt his heart expand, and he nodded fast. "That was … was it good?"

John smiled, pulling the boy into the curve of his arm and hugging him tightly. "It was better than good – it was amazing." He kissed Dean's forehead, and straightened, leaving his arm around his son as they walked slowly back to the building.

* * *

_I think the point is to make us despair. To see ourselves as ... animal and ugly._

_To make us reject the possibility that God could love us._

_~ Father Merrin, The Exorcist_


	4. Chapter 4 Faith in Something Bigger

**Chapter 4 Faith in Something Bigger**

* * *

"_Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once; just once, understand."  
~ Unknown_

* * *

_**1986. Blue Earth, Minnesota.**_

Jim Murphy turned off the burner under the kettle, swearing mildly at the sort of visitor who arrives, unannounced, at five o'clock in the morning. He pulled his robe tightly around him as he strode to the door, a truly scathing remark forming as he reached for the knob and turned it.

The comment was wiped away as he stared at the man in front of him, the two little boys who stood to either side, all three looking at him.

"John –"

"Hi, Jim, I'm sorry about the early hour." John Winchester smiled uncomfortably, glancing down at his sons.

"No. No, that's fine, come in." Jim stood back and held the door open as John walked in, Dean and Sam half-jogging beside him to keep up with their father's long strides.

"I would have called, but I wasn't sure …" he trailed off, again glancing down at the boys, "… that it would safe."

Jim shook his head, gesturing to the end of the hallway where the kitchen spilled warmth and light at the end of the dark hall.

"Coffee? Yes, of course." Jim turned the burner back on, and looked down at Dean and Sam, wriggling their way onto the chairs at the table. "And … uh … hot chocolate? For the boys?"

John looked quizzically at them, hiding his smile at the return looks of pleading, and nodded to the priest. "That'd be good, thanks, Jim."

"Uh, have you eaten? I can make something?" Jim looked around the table, taking in their faces, red cheeked, but white elsewhere, the boys' hair mussed as if they'd been taken from their beds, still half asleep.

John shifted uncomfortably on the chair. "No, that's fine; we'll get breakfast somewhere later."

The priest saw Dean's expression fall and shook his head. "No, I insist. Bacon and eggs and biscuits all right with everyone?"

He got his answer in the hopeful looks on their faces as they checked with their father. More than alright, and they were ready to eat now. Giving John a patient smile, he turned back to the stove, turning on the oven, pulling out a couple of pans and going to the 'fridge for the bacon, eggs and buttermilk. He busied himself with preparing the food, glancing over his shoulder at the dark-haired man sitting at his table as he worked.

"What's happened, John? Are you in trouble?"

John shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I met a few other hunters and they all know you … I thought … it seemed like it was time I came back, to see you, to pay my respects to Ben and Janine."

_At five in the morning?_ Jim kept the thought to himself. He set aside the bowl of scrambled eggs and laid out the bacon, turning the heat on the broiler to low, as he put the flour, buttermilk, egg, salt, butter, baking powder and sugar into another bowl, beating it steadily with a wooden spoon.

Behind him, he heard John's gusty exhale. "Bill told me that you might have a lead on the demon."

Jim closed his eyes, then turned and spooned the biscuit mixture on to a baking tray. He put the tray into the hot oven, and closed the door, wiping his hands on the cloth that hung there, taking the bowl to the sink. He turned around and looked at John, his face expressionless, his eyes wary.

"Yeah, maybe," he allowed, one shoulder lifting slightly. "I don't have enough information to work out exactly what's going on right now. There have been certain signs around … they may indicate that something is happening, or they may not."

"Would you have told me if there was?" John's eyes, a shade darker than his son's and shadowed now, looked up at him. Jim saw the vulnerability in the man's expression, the uncertainty even of his welcome here.

"I would have gotten word to you, John, of course I would. I know what this means to you." He turned away, back to the stove, tipping the whipped eggs into the hot pan and stirring them as they started to cook. It was a lie. In a good cause, but still … a lie. He'd heard from the others, had heard that John was hunting, getting better, more proficient. And as always, as thirsty as a sponge for the knowledge that anyone could teach him. It wasn't that.

"I've been hunting with Bill, and Geny," John said abruptly. "They can vouch for me."

Jim felt his heart drop at the tacit plea in the deep voice. He'd wanted to keep him out of it until he'd been able to find out what the hellspawn were doing. He realised that now, that wasn't going to be possible. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, "John, don't. I won't leave you out of this, I promise."

He opened the oven door, and took a padded mitt, pulling the tray out and setting it on the stovetop. The eggs were just set, the bacon cooked and a little crisp around the edges. Getting plates and cutlery from the big dresser on one wall, he set them out along the table and transferred the food to them, adding condiments and a pat of butter to the table, all automatically, as if he served breakfast to stray hunters and their children every day of his life.

Sitting opposite John, he looked down the table as the boys attacked their food with the enthused gusto of the very young. The man looked older, and harder, he thought, watching him discreetly as he ate. There was a lot more silver in the black hair, and a lot more lines around the mouth and eyes than there had been three years ago, when they'd parted. Some of the events of those years he'd heard about, from the Tasarovs, from Bill or Ellen. There were a lot he hadn't, he thought. Near misses, maybe. He looked at the boys … Dean would be seven years old now, he thought, and Sam almost three. They looked healthy, they were well-mannered, well-behaved – better than a lot of the kids that frequented the church with their parents on the Sabbath.

He mopped up the last of the eggs with the biscuit and got up, taking his plate to the sink and pouring the hot water into the coffee pot. In the cupboard, he found a small pot and filled it with milk, setting it onto the stove at a low heat. In a few minutes, the milk was hot but not boiling and he poured it into two cups, spooning cocoa into them and stirring them as he put them in front of the boys.

He looked at their father. "Maybe a bit more sleep for the boys? There's a comfortable pair of beds upstairs?"

John glanced at them. He'd pulled them out of their beds at two this morning. They could definitely use some more sleep, with their bellies full of warm food and hot chocolate, he thought they'd drop off quickly. And he understood that Jim wanted to talk to him without them there.

He nodded. "Yes, thanks. They could use the extra sleep."

Dean looked at him, eyes half closed with the warmth of the kitchen around him, and the warm chocolatey milk inside. "We're not tired, Dad."

Jim watched the genuine smile spread over John's face, reaching his eyes and lightening them. "No, I know, Dean, but maybe just a lie down, until the food's settled down, okay?"

"Oh. Okay."

The sink was full of soapy water, the dishes in it submerged completely when Jim heard John's footsteps come down the stairs. He washed them quickly, rinsing and setting them on the drainer and put the pot and pans in to soak.

"Asleep?" He turned to face John. John nodded, his face softened by the love he had for his sons, and Jim thought shrewdly, the relief that for the moment at least, they were completely safe.

"Yeah, they went off straight away."

Jim nodded and gestured to the table. A fresh cup of black coffee sat steaming in front of John's chair. There was another at the other end of the table. Jim wiped his hands on the towel hanging by the sink and sat down.

"Bill will be here in the morning, John. This could be big. The last time I saw this particular set of omens was in 1972 – and a priest killed eight nuns in a convent that day."

John's eyebrows rose sharply. "Possession?"

"Of course. As mad as the church has become over the recent years, homicidal maniacs don't often get through the training – they don't have the stamina."

"What do you think is going to happen?" John leaned forward, his gaze intense. Jim shook his head, sipped at his coffee, trying to gather his thoughts to explain what he feared was going to happen.

"Bill told you about the gates?"

John nodded, his eyes widening slightly.

"In South Dakota, there's a gate, not far from Sioux Falls. It opened once in the last fifty years and maybe more times before that." Jim rubbed his hand along his jaw, scratching absently at the scruff of beard there. "It's not a big gate, but I think it's an important one."

"Why?"

"Because the last time it opened, it let through whatever it was that possessed that priest. It took a lot of gumshoeing, to find the trail it left, but it definitely came from that gate, and it made its way to Maryland to commit the murders." Jim chewed on the inside of his lip, thinking about the string of murders he'd looked up, specific murders that were never connected by the police. "There is a gate closer to Maryland, in Kentucky, but it didn't use that one – why?"

John frowned, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know."

"Because, perhaps, the demon couldn't get through that one? The church demonology texts state that some demons can only come through one gate, they cannot use any gate – just as well, I suppose. I don't know how reliable the church's texts are, they were written by men, as was the Bible, but I think in this case it's accurate."

"This demon, the one who killed the nuns – you sound as if I should be taking a particular interest in it?" John asked hesitantly.

"You should. The demon took a very winding route from Sioux Falls to Ilchester, John, it went via Oklahoma, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Kansas and Georgia. It went through Kansas in 1973, through Lawrence, to be specific."

John stared at him, unable to work out what he what being told. 1973 had been the year that Mary's parents were murdered. He didn't remember the exact events; he'd had concussion from a head injury at the time.

"Mary's parents?"

Jim nodded, watching him trying to recreate the events. He knew that John had no recollection of the period when the demon had wreaked havoc in Lawrence. Knew that he'd been fighting with Mary's father and had been knocked to the ground, knocked out, he'd thought.

"Why would a demon go to Lawrence to kill her parents?"

Jim felt for John's confusion, he really did. He didn't know how to explain to the man sitting opposite him the things that had happened because of, or perhaps in spite of those deaths. But he couldn't divulge his source yet, there was a deeper trust at stake. He could lead John to the clues, show him the patterns, but he couldn't tell him outright. That had been the deal.

"I don't know, yet," Jim said quietly. "It's one the things I'm hoping we'll be able to find out when we get there."

John shook his head suddenly. "I can't go – the boys, I don't have anyone to look after them."

Jim smiled. "I called the Tasarovs while you were upstairs, John. They'll be here in the morning. They'll stay."

John looked at him, his eyes searching, uneasy. "You seem to have it all organised, Jim."

"That's kind of my specialty, John. At least, when it comes to things like this."

* * *

Geny and Valentina arrived early, Bill by midday. The house was festive with the extra company, in a military sort of way, Jim mused. He and John and Bill would leave in the morning. They'd be in Sioux Falls by ten.

The signs had become more frequent, more prevalent – more blatant. Thunderstorms, a string of mutiliations, at first stock, then pets in the area. The last report he'd seen had been of an old woman, found in her home, her internal organs gone. The area was geologically stable but that hadn't stopped the almost-continuous earth tremors. He wondered if such an open invitation had been meant, or if the demons believed that they were too powerful to be overcome.

The first priority was to shut the gate. If they were successful, then they would try and find a way to reveal to John what had happened to him, to his family, the night of November 2nd, 1983. If they weren't successful … Jim stopped the thought. They would be successful. They had to be.

It was a straight shot from Blue Earth to Sioux Falls, and they arrived just at sunrise, the outskirts of the town quiet and peaceful in the growing light. They pulled into the motel forecourt, and got rooms for the night, stowing gear, and sorting out what they'd need.

Jim watched John's face as he packed the canvas duffle with guns and salt and ammunition. There was a tension there, in the muscles, behind the eyes, that made him feel uneasy. He knew John's obsession with hunting the demon that had killed Mary, knew it drove him to do things, to attempt things that a more cautious – or less compelled – man would think twice about. They didn't need any heroics today. Just soldiers, doing their job.

"John -" he started, hesitating when the other man kept his eyes on what he was doing, his hands moving the ordnance from the bed to the bag. "John."

John looked up, his eyes refocussing slowly.

"Nothing reckless today. We have to stick together and do this by the numbers if we're going to get the gate shut."

John nodded, turning back to the bag. "I understand, Jim."

Jim looked at him a moment longer, wondering if that was the truth. He hoped so. He felt a brief regret that he couldn't keep lying to the man, that he couldn't keep him in the dark any longer or even until he was sure about what he feared. John was living on his nerves too much already and he felt uneasy at the tension in the younger man's body, the tightly held control he could sense in his mind.

If anything could go wrong today, it surely would. You didn't have to be a hunter to know that old Murphy, his namesake, kept an eye on all delicate operations, and like the trickster gods of old, would be more than happy to throw in a wrench or three in for his own amusement.

* * *

They felt the wrongness of the gateway long before they got near it. The thinly wooded area was still and silent, the animals and insects and birds either hiding or fled. The grasses and groundcovers looked dried out as they got nearer, then the trees themselves seemed to be wilting, the branches and leaves desiccated and lifeless.

Bill looked through the glasses at the hillside. The gate was still open, he could see the dark maw, like a wound amidst the granite outcroppings of the rock wall. There was movement down there, misty misshapen outlines, transparent beings who were only visible by the distortions of the rocks and earth he could see through them. The vegetation that had surrounded the gate was blackened and dead, poisoned by the air and the earth itself was veined with lines of sulphur. He wondered nervously how the hell they would be able to breathe in that miasma, held there in the cup between the two narrow ridges.

Beside him, John lay on his stomach, looking down into the hollow. Bill could feel the man's fury, radiating off him like the heat from an asphalt road on a stinking hot day. Jim was crouched in the scant cover of the trees several yards away, closer to the vale. The mottled grey and brown fatigues hid him from casual view, blending in with the trunks of the silver birch and dogwood that surrounded him.

He touched John's shoulder lightly as Jim nodded to him. The strange shapes and shadows had drifted away from the entrance, and this might be their only shot at closing the gate. He hoped like hell it would work.

Jim moved out from the trees, walking steadily across the defiled ground. Little puffs of dust, grey and black and yellow rose with each footstep as he got closer to the opening. Bill and John had split up and come down either side of the ridge point they'd been lying on, feeling the heat pressing against their skin as they got closer and closer to the opening to the underworld.

Jim had almost reached the gate when he felt it, a pressure on his mind, a mental stench of rot and decay. He spun around and saw the distortion of the rocks to his right, the almost visible form of the soldier demon, dusty sunlight reflecting fleetingly from a long tooth, a curved claw. He pulled the old bayonet sword from the sheath at his belt and heard it hiss through the air as he pivoted, the still-sharp edge of the iron slowing as it bit into the demon's transparent form. The shrieking cry that filled his mind was not audible, not to his ears. It drilled through his brain though, high-pitched, resonating and reverberating through a nervous system that was not equipped to handle such a sensation.

On the other side, Bill dropped to his knees, his hands uselessly covering his ears. John had turned, eyes screwed shut against the pain in his head and was blindly stumbling on toward the gate. Jim swore and jerked the bayonet from the demon, aiming higher this time and sweeping down, severing the corporeal but non-visible head from the body. The ensuing silence rang with the cessation of that shriek.

Climbing back onto his feet, Bill followed John quickly across the clearing, and Jim scanned the area for anything else that had stayed behind, hiding and guarding the entrance. Nothing moved. There was no noise but the men's footsteps padding through the thick dust, bootsoles scraping as they reached the rock. He ran toward them, shoving the bayonet blade back in its sheath and reaching for the satchel that hung over his shoulder.

Red-faced and straining, Bill and John manoeuvred a loose boulder into place against the slab of rock. Their toes dug into the thin gravel and dust, muscle bunching and flexing as they struggled to push the enormous rock against the hole, both slick with sweat from the heat that poured out of the darkness. John felt himself gagging against it, wiping his mouth as he tucked his face against his shoulder. It was a dry, foul heat, fetid with the thick fumes of brimstone, and down somewhere deep, the faintest cries of the damned. He tried to tell himself that was his imagination, just the suggestive power of the acrid scents, but shivers rippled up his neck each time he heard them, chilling him despite the sweat that was dripping from him.

Jim stood in front of the rock and pulled out the Bible from the satchel. It was his own, had been to the other side of the world with him and come back. It had, at one time, transformed a simple hunting knife into a blazing sword; he hoped it would do the job needed now.

He opened the book to Revelations 1:18 and started to read. Bill and John stood back from the rock, exchanging an uneasy look, unsure of what Jim was doing, what would happen.

"_I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; I carry the keys of Hell and of Death."_

He stepped up to the rock and with his rosary in his hand, made the sign of the cross on the surface of the boulder. He felt a heat, faintly, in against his palm and he closed his eyes, praying silently for strength.

"_With these keys I do so lock this gate of Hell, in this time and for all time."_

He made the sign of the cross on the rock ledge above the boulder, and again to each side of the boulder. The heat was strengthening, spreading throughout him as if a fever was growing in him.

"_This body is the servant of God, this soul is the servant of God, and all that is done in His name shall be everlasting for His is the power, to make right against the abdomination and the harlot and the demon and even so the angel, fallen to Earth."_

Stepping back a pace, he knelt in front of the boulder, head bowed as his voice strengthened, became louder, echoing flatly in the narrow cleft of a valley. The heat had reached his skin, the tips of his fingers and toes.

"_In the name of the Father. I seal the gate." _He touched the rosary to his forehead.

"_In the name of the Son. I seal the gate." _He touched the rosary to his stomach.

"_In the name of the Holy Ghost. I seal the gate." _He touched his left shoulder, then his right and kissed the rosary. Abruptly, the heat flared, like a corona inside of him and he held his breath, knowing what it was, knowing what would happen, afraid but exalted at the time.

The rock against the hole shuddered once and Bill and John exchanged another glance, moving back from the wall together. From the remaining crack, above the boulder, came a powerful gust of heat and wind, and Jim stepped closer, a strange aureole flickering around him, almost unseen in the flat, bright sunshine.

"_In the name of the Father. I seal the gate." _Again, he touched the rosary to his forehead.

"_In the name of the Son. I seal the gate." _And again he touched the rosary to his stomach.

"_In the name of the Holy Ghost. I seal the gate." _And again he touched his left shoulder, then his right and kissed the rosary.

The rock glowed with a sudden deep heat. From above and around it, the surrounding rock was also glowing, where he'd made the sign of the cross on the stone, the rock was melting, running down into the crevices surrounding the boulder and filling them as the boulder itself slumped and then reformed. There was a slight hiss as the air was forced out between the joins, and then rock was smooth, with no sign of there ever being an opening in the face of the wall.

Jim let out his breath in a long shudder. He stood slowly, tucking the rosary and the Bible back into the satchel, wiping a trembling hand over his face and finally, turning to look at the astonished faces of his friends.

"Well, how did you think we were going to shut it?" The corner of his mouth twisted up in a derisive smile. "Happy to believe in demons, you lot, but when it comes to the power of God …"

Bill looked at John sheepishly. John's grin flashed white suddenly, in the midst of the black beard and the grime that coated his skin.

"Come on." Jim turned away back to the woods, his walk steady but slow. "This was, relatively speaking, the easy part."

Bill and John followed him as he climbed the side of the ridge and came out of the still silent vale and on to the top of the ridge, all three drawing in deep lungfuls of the fresher, moving air.

* * *

The bar was almost empty, and Jim had chosen a booth, far from the long counter and the few customers who were there. John glanced around as he ate mechanically, wondering if any of the people who seemed to be normal, seemed to be people, were actually under the control of a demon.

"Some of those demons are free to create havoc without the need for a body." Jim paused in his eating, fork suspended above the plate, looking from Bill to John to be sure they understood. Bill nodded, but John frowned.

"The soldier demons – like the one I killed when we entered the valley – are not dependent on a body, being corporeal themselves." He lifted the fork and continued eating, pausing as he noticed John's expression. "Iron. Iron, with as little else as practical to the making of the tool, can touch them, kill them. No other metal."

John picked up his burger, taking a bite. There was a lot more to demons than he'd thought possible. His reading had been confined to what he'd been able to get, what he could find on the road with his sons, but even so, he'd never heard of soldier demons, nor of the half-breeds that apparently were on the earth in numbers, nor, except in the most general biblical sense, the Fallen, the angels who'd joined with Lucifer, and along with him had been cast into the domain of Hell, reigning there now as Princes of the lower levels. Jim had been talking about demons steadily since they'd returned from the gate, in general and occasionally in specific terms, but the wealth of knowledge the man had of the hellspawn was overwhelming, too much to take in at one sitting.

"The rest, especially the younger ones will be looking for meatsuits – humans, to take over and ride. Those are going to be harder to find, but easier to trap and question."

Bill nodded, wiping his mouth on his napkin and finishing his beer. "What about that spell, Jim? The marking spell?"

John paused mid-chew, turning his head to look at the pastor. Jim shrugged. It would work, in a closed situation like this. He'd brought everything they needed for it.

"We need a place that everyone in town will use – from the youngest to the oldest. Any ideas?"

"Supermarket?" Bill glanced at the waitress and caught her eye, lifting the beer glass slightly from the table. She nodded and went behind the bar to draw him another.

"Maybe, although I'd imagine there a few gentlemen in this town who wouldn't be caught dead in a supermarket." Jim's gaze slid to a group on the other side of the room.

Bill followed his glance and shrugged. "We can make two, somewhere for the less sociable?"

"Not at the same time. There's only the three of us and I don't want our strength spread so thin." He put the flatware together on his plate and sat back. "But yeah, one after the other might be alright. In which case this is probably the best spot."

"What's a marking spell?" John looked from Jim to Bill, trying to keep up. There were traps and spells, wards and sigils and circles of binding and circles of protection and his head was still reeling from the priest's descriptions of the hierarchies of the accursed plane.

"Just what it sounds like." Bill looked up as the waitress approached with another round of beers on a tray. He leaned back a bit as she put the beers on the table and picked up the empty glasses and his and Jim's plates. He watched her go, waiting until she was nearly to the bar before continuing. "Within the bounds of the spell, any person who is possessed by a demon will have a skin reaction that shows up in about five minutes. It lasts for forty-eight hours, and it's reasonably discreet – not like they're branded with a big "D" in the middle of their foreheads or anything. A dark circle appears on the left side of the neck, about yay-big -" He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger making a circle the size of a quarter. "So we can tell who is possessed and who isn't."

"Sounds useful." John finished his burger and picked up the fresh glass of beer. "Where did you learn about that?"

Jim grinned at him, a slightly rueful grin. "Oh, we've got all manner of useful things like that to play with John, stick around, you'll see."

* * *

The spell wasn't difficult to do, although it required a little distraction here and there so that the store manager didn't pay too much attention to him as he painted the almost clear liquid in a circle at the main door. They spent the day sitting in shifts on the bench on the right-hand side of the supermarket, watching people as they exited the store and noting those who had left with a quarter-sized black mark on their neck. The weather was warm enough that scarves, turtlenecks and the like were not likely to interfere with their surveillance. Bill stood on the sidewalk outside the store, a clipboard full of fake survey sheets in his hand and at the end of the first day, he had a list of ten people who were definitely possessed.

John had spent a part of the day in an antique store in the next town over, looking for iron farm implements. He'd managed to acquire a bill hook and a hoe, both hard and able to take a good edge. Neither implement was pure iron, but both had lower quantities of carbon than modern steel. He found, by accident, looking under an old bent plough, a sword, rusted and pitted but still with a good spring in the metal. When he handed it to Jim, the pastor whistled softly and smiled. It was a cavalry sword, from the eighteenth century, and he passed it back to John, nodding happily.

"Clean it up and bring back the edge and that will do very nicely indeed."

Bill opted for the hoe, liking the multiple surfaces of the tool. Jim was happy with the reach and deadly edge of the bill hook.

"Not bad. We'll look for the soldier demons after tonight, they'll be out."

* * *

Main Street was quiet and deserted, the lamps casting their pools of soft white light onto the black road below with a regularity that Jim found soothing. Such were the things of civilisation, he thought with an inward shake of his head. That streets were lit at night to keep the darkness and all it contained at bay, making it safer for those who were out after dark to get home unmolested by petty criminals. Or non-petty criminals for that matter. He leaned back against the door of the shop, set off the pavement in a small alcove and wondered how quickly humanity would return to the wild if one day, the power went out for good.

Too quickly, his pragmatic Irish mind replied. And if not the wild, precisely, then the Dark Ages, as sure as anything.

Along the street, Bill and John sat hunched in another store alcove on the other side. Bill looked up as the streetlight twenty yards up from them began to flicker and fade. It went out precisely as the next one along began to flicker in its turn. They could both hear a leathern rustle in the air above the street, the wicker and snap and crackle of wings of skin, stretched tightly over hollow bones. Anyone else might have thought 'bats', John thought, feeling his stomach tighten, but these were too big for bats.

He felt for the lighter and aerosol can in his jacket pockets, his hand closing around the hilt of the cleaned and polished cavalry sword for a moment's reassurance as he rose to his feet, drawing back against the door. Beside him, Bill stood too, leaning on the long oak shaft of the hoe, waiting for the demons to pass by them.

Jim saw the lights going out, one at a time, first flickering, as demon strength sucked at the electricity, then becoming dimmer and fading until they were completely gone. He gripped the thick smooth haft of the hook, and levered himself upright, pressing back against the door as the unseen cloud passed him. He saw John step out onto the street, the flame of his lighter jumping and bowing in the darkness and heard the demon mass wheel higher and turn back. They were almost on him when he ignited the aerosol and the long roaring flame erupted from the can, licking along the bodies of those demons closest to him, and casting a thirty foot pool of light upon the others. Bill had stepped forward even as the flame rushed out, his accuracy with the hoe deadly, and the demons backwinged and wheeled and shrieked at the humans attacking them – _them!_ – while they were unable to get close enough to return the damage.

Jim ran lightly up the centre of the street, hoping that no citizen would come hooning up behind him. He'd almost reached the thickly massed aerial hellspawn when he stopped, dragging his lighter from his left pocket and the large aerosol can from his right pocket. He dropped the hook and lit the rush of gas from the can, catching the edge of the mass between his flamethrower and John's. Crackling and whining, the demons flew into each other as the fire illuminated them, piercing translucent bodies and reflecting from teeth and claws. A vision from Dante, Jim thought irrelevantly, lifting the can higher and watching as the leathern wings were seared by the flames.

Two of the streetlights at either end of the street came back on as more and more of the demons dropped, charred and visible, or chopped or smashed into pieces by Bill's long-reaching hoe. John's aerosol finally ran out of fuel, and he dropped it, and the lighter, into the street, pulling the sword from his belt and hacking his way through the demons closest, lit up by Jim's healthily roaring flamethrower. More and more of the streetlights were returning to working order as John and Bill hacked and slashed their way along the street, ichor and brimstone spattering from every fatal wound, their faces lit up in hellish expression by the silver and gold of the lights and the fire. It could have only been minutes, but it felt like hours when Jim dropped his lighter and the can to the asphalt, reaching down to pick up the hook at his feet. He straightened fast, his head jerking to one side as he felt a bright pain along one cheek, and swung back, the long, curved blade biting into substance and a high-pitched scream filling his head. He finished the demon on the road's slicked black surface, his expression grim, knuckles showing white through the skin over them. Turning away when the scream died, Jim shifted his grip on the hook's long haft and began to systematically butcher the demons lying on the road, those felled from the air.

In darkness and in the brightness of noon, the demons had been, not quite invisible, but very difficult to see. But under the light of a flame or the artificial lights of the streetlights, their bodies crusted with carbon and the black ichor of their blood, they were obvious.

When nothing else flew at him, John stopped, his chest heaving in and out as he looked around at the carcasses lying around them. None were moving so far as he could see. He had no idea how many there'd been – in the first flaring light of the flamethrower he'd seen hundreds of black shining eyes, thousands of needle-like teeth; now he wasn't so sure. Maybe twenty, maybe thirty had gotten free of the gate?

Jim leaned on the haft of the hook, its blade dripping and sticky with demon blood and wiped a hand over his face. He glanced at John, watching him wearily as the hunter looked around at the bodies filling the wide street. He recognised the man's expression of exhaustion and disgust in the set of his own features.

John looked up, his head turning as he caught sight of the pastor.

"How many got out, do you think?"

"Not that many, or we couldn't have pulled this off." Jim shifted his shoulders, easing a sore spot. "Maybe twenty, no more than thirty."

John nodded, gesturing with the sword at the bodies on the street. "Looks about right, from this."

Bill picked his way across the street. "Please tell me, Jim, that we do not have to clean up this mess?"

Jim's mouth lifted. "No, the sun will take care of them as soon as it rises. I guess a few early risers will cop an eyeful."

"Will they just … disappear?" John looked curiously at him.

"Not really disappear, they'll sort of dissolve." He shrugged. "Not a bad night's work."

Bill wiped the end of his hoe on one of the wings, grimacing at the smell. "I could use a drink."

John nodded. "We'll make it a double."

* * *

Despite the lack of sleep, all three rose early the next morning. The gate was closed; the worst of Hell's denizens were destroyed. But they still had at least ten possessed people to find, exorcise and save today. The motel was not going to be suitable for demon-work. Leaving the others to their breakfasts, Bill scouted the town and found a boarded-up mechanics garage, out of town a mile along County Road 3, that would fit their needs. Jim drove out and set up what he needed in the workshop, in between the pits. He swept the floor clean and used a thick permanent marker to mark out the devil's trap, then painted over it with consecrated lamb's blood. He laid out holy water and salt and iron, and four bags of blessed saline solution; fastened the thick leather straps over the steel framed chair set in the centre of the trap, and set up the drip pole behind the chair for the gravity drip. The substances were all non-harmful to a human body. They were all toxic in varying degrees to a demon.

Two other devil's traps were drawn with permanent marker on either side of the doorway. As he drew them out, Jim thought of them both as 'waiting rooms' with no trace of humour.

He heard the car less than an hour after he'd finished the preparations and opened the door, gesturing to John to set the body into the first of the traps beside the door; John dumped it and went back to the car for the third as Bill staggered past him, a big man over his shoulder, to the main circle. Jim looked at the demon vessels with no surprise. They'd seen them the previous evening, in the bar; petty, spiteful men whose insecurities had been a gaping hole for the demons to pour themselves through and into. All three were unconscious, the demons within gagged and bound with consecrated iron chain, interwoven with rosaries that Jim had had specially made, the fine polished stones set in between the fine iron links were turquoise.

He fastened the straps about the man, cinching them tightly enough to prevent any play or stretch in the leather, but not so tightly that they would cut off the blood supply to the hands and feet. Within the devil's trap, Bill removed the chains that bound the demons, and stepped out, returning them to the bag that was slung over his shoulder.

Jim opened the vial of holy water, looking down at the man in the chair and reminding himself that more than a man sat there. He flicked the vial, the water splashing onto the demon's face. The eyes flew open, black as coal, with the dead flat sheen of a shark's eyes. Where the droplets of holy water had landed, the skin burned, as if it had been acid.

"Before we start, I should tell that we have all the time in the world," Jim said in a calm, reasonable voice. The demon's eyes tracked him as he walked to the front of the trap, its lips curled back from its teeth.

"Not as much time as I have," The demon sneered. "All Eternity to sit and converse with you."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. If you don't answer, we'll send you back to Hell."

The demon was silent, and John and Bill looked at each other, wondering how old it was.

"Why was the gate opened?" Jim threw another measure of holy water over it. It howled and screamed as the skin puckered and crinkled, the burns going deeper this time.

"Who opened the gate?" The water arced out of the vial, spattering over the demon.

"Stop, wait!" It shook the loose drops from its face, straining against the bonds that it held in place. "I don't know. I don't know anything. I crawled out of there as soon as I smelled the fresh air. I'm not a part of anything!"

"Liar" Jim turned to the table, taking one of the bags of saline and hooking the top of the bag to the pole. He ran the narrow tube down beside the demon. It turned to look at the bag fearfully, eyes widening further as it saw the needle and cannula. Jim saw the look and shook his head reassuringly. "Oh, don't worry, it's only holy water made into a saline solution. It won't hurt the human you're in at all."

He slid the needle into the large vein on the back of the hand, inserting the cannula through it, and then withdrawing the needle. He taped down the tube to the skin and opened the valve on the bag, tapping it a couple of times to ensure that it was flowing.

"You, on the other hand, well, it's likely to hurt a lot," he added, as the drops began to trickle down the clear plastic tube.

The demon stared at the trickle, its eyes wide.

"Alright, ALRIGHT! Turn it off, don't let it touch me!" it snarled, pulling back from the tube as far as the binding allowed, its eyes locked on the steady flow, gathering speed now under the relentless force of gravity. "I said turn it off! I'll tell you – I'll tell you whatever you want to know -,"

The first of the drops slid through the end of the tube and disappeared under the tape, hitting the blood stream less than a second later. John thought his eardrums would rupture at that first scream, which rose and rose in the room, bouncing off the hard walls and floors, reminding him of the noise of a tornado that had once passed close by his parents house, when he'd been a kid. This was higher-pitched, but no less powerful.

Jim clamped the tube, stopping the drips. The small amount of saline travelled along with the blood, pumped efficiently by the heart through vein and capillary, artery and venule, and the burning pain was carried along with it, inside the body, inside the skin and muscle, through the tissue and bone and in and out again of the heart. Desensitisation was slow, and only partially effective with such a small amount.

The demon blinked rapidly, sweat beading and dripping down its face and pale brown eyes stared balefully at Jim. "I'll kill you for that."

"Will you now?" Jim shrugged. "I believe your last words were 'I'll tell you everything' … better start talking."

The demon bowed his head. "The gate was opened to let a particular demon out. It's the only gate he can get through."

"And the name of the demon?" Jim felt his excitement rising and forced it down, forced his voice to show little interest, as if these were establishing questions, questions to which he already knew the answers.

"Azazel."

Bill frowned and stepped forward. Jim saw the movement and the expression from the corner of his eye and shook his head slightly.

"Azazel, Fallen Angel of the Eighth Choir?" he asked, his tone conversational.

The demon shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't spend a lot of time studying the histories. There are rumours, that the Fallen have different coloured eyes to the rest, to the made demons, even the ones at the top of the food chain, but I've never seen a Fallen, at least not one of the Princes, so I can't tell if it's the truth or not."

"What colour eyes does Azazel have?"

"Yellow."

Jim stiffened slightly and John looked at him, wondering why that was significant.

"What purpose did Azazel have in opening the gate?"

"I don't know. He's been going out every ten years or so, since before I went down there. The others don't know either." The demon's head rolled back. "That's all I know. I'm young, like, only been down there about a hunnred years." He looked blearily at the other two demons, lying still bound and chained in the traps by the door. "The one on the left, he's about the same age as me. He won't be able to tell you anything different. But the other one … she's been there a long time, she might have better information."

Jim nodded, and turned to Bill. "You can send him back. We'll try that one next."

The demon looked up, mouth stretched in a rictus of fear. "You can't send me back, not after what I've told you!"

"Actually we can, and we have to. No witness protection up here for demons," Bill told him, taking out his journal as he walked to the edge of the trap.

Flipping through the pages to the exorcism ritual, he cleared his throat and began to read, the old Latin flowing from his tongue into the air surrounding the demon. The words, both prayer for divine strength and aid, and exhortations to the essence of the creature hiding in the human, had their effect. The demon's head snapped from side to side, lips drawn back from its teeth in an agonised rictus. The chair shook as the ritual drew the barbed hooks of possession from the man's flesh, muscles trembling, tendons stretching and tautening until the mouth flew open and the demon poured out, a thick coil of near-black smoke, twisting within the bounds of the invisible walls of the trap and leaving the man in the chair unconscious and limp.

Bill looked up and made the sign of the cross, repeating the exorcism until the smoke fell the floor, glowing red for a moment and then disappearing entirely.

John wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked at Jim. "What's so significant about the colour of the eyes?" he asked the priest in a low voice. Jim looked up at him, saw the worry in the hunter's eyes and turned away.

"We'll talk about it later, John. Let's just get through this. You and Bill will have to go and get the others. Whether we learn more or not, they all have to be sent back."

John nodded unwillingly, watching as Bill unfastened the bindings and tipped the unconscious man over his shoulder. He waited until the demon hunter had passed the traps then hauled the next demon out of the waiting room and into the torture chamber. As he fastened the bindings and unwound the chains, he flinched back slightly when the demon regained control, averting his eyes quickly from the flat black eyes that had narrowed and were watching him.

"What purpose does Azazel have for coming to this plane?" Jim loosened the valve, increasing the amount of saline that flowed through the tube. The demon's screams drilled into their ears, into their brains, and they left the workshop, as a matter of necessity, breathing the clean fresh air outside and giving their battered eardrums a rest.

"Do you think any of them will know? I mean, if the demon is high up in the chain of command …" John trailed away, looking from Bill to Jim.

"Demons are liars and cowards – and gather pieces of information like magpies. One of them will know, will have heard a rumour, or heard from another," Jim sounded certain.

"Jim, what is the significance of the yellow eyes?" John looked at him, brow creased.

Jim sighed softly. "Years ago, I heard a rumour, from the hellspawn, that a yellow-eyed demon was building an army. I didn't think much of it at the time. It didn't seem to pertain to anything I knew at the time," he hesitated for a long moment, then continued, his voice holding a thread of uneasiness. "But when that demon rose, in '72, it left some people along its route alive. They all swear that the man they spoke to, the man that had passed through their town or city, leaving bodies behind, was different. They all saw a flash of yellow in his eyes. So, this demon, has committed an atrocity against the church, with the attack on the convent, for some purpose, and is building an army. We need to know to how – and why."

John nodded slowly, letting the new information trickle down through the filters of what he'd already learned. It didn't set off any bells and whistles. He didn't think he had enough pieces yet. The priest's faint reluctance to be more forthcoming was another matter. "But you think it has to do with what happened to us, to Mary?"

Jim looked at him, his eyes suddenly old, and weary. "Yeah, I think it does."

He stood up, stretching his shoulders and back.

"You two had better get the next lot. Drop the vics off at the ER on the way."

He walked back inside the workshop. The demon was still shrieking. He turned off the drip and walked to the small table, waiting.

"What is Azazel's purpose in coming here?"

The demon looked up at him, lips pulled back from bared teeth. "Shove it up your ass!"

"What army is Azazel building?"

"Bite me!"

A thought occurred to Jim and he walked slowly back to the drip, waiting as it took shape in his mind.

"Azazel doesn't need to come to this plane to build an army, unless …" he paused as the connection formed in his mind. The implications were far-reaching, and explained the agitation of the agent he'd dealt with. "Unless he's planning a coup."

The demon was silent.

"He wants to use humans in his army. Special humans?"

The demon stared at the tube leading into the vein in its hand. The pain was still present, eating like hydrochloric acid through the network of blood vessels, but it would get worse, a whole lot worse, if the drip started to flow again.

"How does he make special humans, hellspawn?" Jim lifted his hand to the valve, knowing the demon could see the movement.

"He finds infants." The demon said unwillingly, eyes rolled to one side, watching the hand that hovered over the valve.

"And …?" Jim let his fingers rest on the valve tap, the light touch sending another couple of drops of solution down the tube. The demon's mouth pulled back, the muscles and tendons standing out in the hands and arms and back and neck, in anticipation of the liquid pain.

"And he gives them his blood to drink." It looked away, shoulders slumping suddenly. "The blood changes them, changes the way they think, feel. Changes the way the body works. It gives them access to the parts of the brain that humans haven't used for a long, long time."

Jim frowned, lips pursed as he considered that. "Psychic powers?"

"Yes." It blinked and the eyes had returned to the dark brown of the vessel, bloodshot and yellowed around the corneas, but human-looking.

"How does he find the infants?"

"I don't know. He said, once, that he looked for strong parents, but he didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask."

"Why the attempt at a coup? I thought you were all just one big happy family down there?"

"There are … factions." It raised its head, letting it roll back for a moment. "Like here, the Christians and … everyone else."

"That's cryptic."

"Ask a specific question, you'll get a specific answer."

"What is the end game for this army?" Jim stared at the demon, keeping his face expressionless, hoping that it couldn't sense the sudden acceleration of his heart.

The demon snorted. "I have no idea. Too many levels above my pay grade."

Jim thought that was probably true. But he also thought that the demon was hedging, that it knew more than it was saying. He needed the right questions to get the right answers.

"How many infants has Azazel infected?"

"In the hundreds at this stage." The demon looked at him, and he saw its anticipation. It was waiting for his despair, waiting to drink his pain. He locked down his mind, shutting away all emotion.

"Will the infants be soldiers in the army?"

"No. Leaders."

"Against what demon is Azazel attempting this coup?"

"Lilith."

Jim felt his confidence crack at the mention of that name, and he struggled to keep his face without reaction. The first born demon. Seductress, sorceress, monster even in life.

"Are the Fallen with Azazel or with Lilith?"

"No idea. Some of both, I'd imagine."

He turned away, walking to the back of the workshop, his thoughts churning and nausea rising in his stomach. Some of the pieces were there, enough to make him realise that what was coming was a lot bigger than he'd thought. But not enough, not enough to take action, to know the entire shape. And the demon, he thought, was about tapped out of useable information. He couldn't think of what he needed to know, how to phrase the questions to get the answers he needed. He turned back to it.

"What is your name?" Jim moved past the drip pole, and the demon turned its head to follow him.

"Ruby."

* * *

By evening, the last of the possession victims had been exorcised and taken to the ER. Jim was tired to the marrow of his bones with the effort of the day's work, and Bill and John looked no better, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes shadowed with tension. He packed away the items on the table carefully into the leather gladstone, his mind churning over all they'd learned that day.

It was much worse than he'd thought, and despite the fact that they now knew a lot more, it seemed that the knowledge couldn't help with an actual plan of action. He dreaded telling John of the demon Ruby's words. It might break him to learn of the thing that had been done to his youngest boy.

The silence in the car as they returned to the motel was leaden. They'd finished the job and they would leave the following morning, but each of them was too aware that what was going on was bigger than any of them could've imagined. Bill picked up a couple of pizzas and a six pack of beer while Jim and John repacked their gear into the car. All three were subdued and lost in their own thoughts as they ate. Jim felt John's eyes on him and he looked up, one brow lifted questioningly.

"Jim, you've been sitting there stewing for the last hour. You have to tell me what you learned today – not knowing, it's worse than knowing," John said, glancing at Bill uncomfortably. "Is it about what happened?"

_You're wrong, John. Not knowing is infinitely better than knowing_, Jim thought tiredly as he tried to organise the new information into a narrative he could explain.

"You need to prepare yourself, John, because the news isn't good," he warned the younger man, his glance flickering to Bill as he pushed his plate aside.

"Azazel is building an army. He plans, apparently, to stage a coup on one of the most powerful demons in Hell. Lilith."

Bill brows shot up in recognition, and John's brow creased worriedly. "I know I should know the name, but apart from the Adam's first wife thing, I don't."

"Lilith was the first demon Lucifer made from a human soul," Bill said uncomfortably. "Like Samhain and Bezelbub, she's one of the oldest demons."

Jim nodded. "She's a little over three thousand years old, a very powerful demon. She is subordinate to the Princes, of course, but her word is law on nearly everything in Hell."

"Okay, so … one demon wants to knock another off its perch." John looked from Bill to Jim. "What does that have to do with us?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know yet, but something, because Azazel is recruiting humans to be the leaders for his army." He took a breath, knowing that hiding the truth wouldn't do anyone any favours in the long run. "He is choosing human infants, infecting them with his blood – demon blood – to become … more than human, and loyal to him."

John felt as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss. He looked down and couldn't see the bottom, wasn't sure there was a bottom. Jim's words richoted around his head, bouncing off the other things he knew, shrapnel that was shredding and tearing at his soul as he tried to gather the courage to make himself speak, to confirm what his heart feared.

"Infants … like Sam was, when Mary was killed?" The usual deep, rich timbre of his voice was gone. The words came out high and twisted and painfully from his throat.

Jim's expression was compassionate as he watched John struggling with the knowledge. "Yes. I believe that … Mary might have made a deal, back in '73, John – to save your life – she gave Azazel the right to come to your house."

"Save my life?" John stared at him disbelievingly. "From what?"

Jim closed his eyes briefly. "The night you and Mary left Lawrence – you don't remember what happened?"

"Mary's father – Samuel – came after us," John said uncertainly, his gaze swinging around to Bill. "He was trying to stop us … I think."

"He was possessed," Jim told him firmly. "By the demon."

John shook his head. "No – Jim, you don't know that – how could you know that?!"

Jim looked at him, wondering how much he could reveal without breaking his word. "I can't tell you that, John. I can tell you that I'm certain of it. That I would lay my life down on the truth of this."

"What happened?"

"Samuel was possessed by Azazel," Jim said, looking at him. "When he found you and Mary, he killed you – snapped your neck. I think Mary agreed to the deal to bring you back."

"No." John shook his head, denying the possibility, denying the pain that flooded up through him, denying the relief that snuck in behind it, a thin, repugnant relief that he hadn't been responsible for her death. "No, that's not possible. Mary would never have done that –"

"John, listen to me," Jim leaned forward across the table, staring at the other man. "I think she gave permission for Azazel to come, intending to renege on the deal. But the demon killed her because she was there, in the room."

John dropped his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he fought against the shock and the blindingly bitter pain of her betrayal. He could see how Mary might have done it – _in just that way_ – to save him, believing that she could somehow get out of it when it came due. And that had been her mistake because a demon like Azazel, fallen angel, servant of the devil, had wiped out her like a bug hitting a windshield, without thought, without effort.

"Sammy?" John lifted his head, his eyes bright, his cheeks shining from the tears that still flowed. "Sam … is Sammy going to become a demon?"

Jim bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. He didn't think so; it would defeat the purpose of recruiting human children to simply turn them into demons. The demon he'd interrogated had said that the blood changed them – _changed the way they think, the way they feel_ – it'd said. He didn't know, exactly, what that meant.

"John, I don't know for sure, but I don't think so. Azazel wants the combination – humans with the power of demons, but he could have saved himself a lot of trouble and just gone for the demons in Hell if that's what he planning on creating. I think he wants the human soul untwisted, married to the power of the demon blood, which can call on the souls of Hell. But … it's just a theory … I don't know for sure."

John nodded and stood abruptly, stumbling to the bathroom.

Bill looked at Jim, his eyes filled with horror, his face white with shock. "What does this mean, Jim? What's the end game?"

Jim shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Not yet. I can't see an outcome from this piece of vile work, can't even guess at one."

Bill glanced at the closed bathroom door. "Will this break him?"

Jim followed the gaze, his brows drawing together. "I don't know that either. I hope, I'm praying that it won't."

* * *

John crouched above the toilet, staring sightlessly at the pizza and beer that filled the bowl. He stood, and flushed it away, feeling for the sink, turning to it, and twisting on the tap. He filled his mouth with cold water, rinsing away the taste of his bile, splashing it over his face, his eyes, feeling the cold bite into his skin, pushing away the terrible thoughts and feelings that were clouding his mind. Dead and brought back at the cost of his son? Her son?

_Mary … god, Mary why didn't you tell me?_ The anguish of that silent cry screamed out of him, and he let the cold water run over his face again, wanting to be washed clean of everything he'd just learned.

He straightened, and reached for the towel, wiping the water away, staring at his face in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. Aside from the horror he could see in his eyes, he looked the same, a little more pale, perhaps. He wondered bitterly how long it would take him to get through the titanic waves of emotions he could feel heaving themselves in the distance. It didn't matter. He was alive, he was still young, still strong – he would become stronger yet and he would kill the yellow-eyed sonofabitch and save his son. He would.

Bill poured out a tumbler of whiskey and passed it wordlessly to John when he returned to sit at the table. John looked down at the amber liquid in the glass for a long time, then tipped half of it into his mouth, swallowing fast, the burn of the liquor taking away the last of the bile, and spreading warmth throughout his chilled body.

"How do you know about the gates, Jim? How could you close it – the way you did?"

Jim looked at him, recognising the tactic for what it was. John was seeking distance, seeking a way to approach the pain and terror obliquely, rather than directly. He accepted the glass that Bill passed him, sipping at the whiskey slowly.

"In 1951, I joined the army. The Depression never really left parts of Virginia, where I grew up, and I figured that with a soldier's pay, I could at least take care of my family, maybe see something of the world." He snorted derisively into his glass. "Just the usual garbage a kid tells himself when he joins up. We were sent to Korea, in late '51 and I served there until 1953."

He looked up at them. "Most people remember Vietnam. Korea was largely forgotten – except by the people who were there, and those who watched M*A*S*H, I guess. It was the US' first experience of fighting in Asia, fighting a war that had no clear cut goals, no definitive good or bad sides, fighting a war where guerrilla warfare was the order of the day. We were in the jungles, couldn't get out mostly. You might have heard of the Battle of the Hook, the Chinese forces outnumbered the UN forces by a factor of five. Well, we were on the outskirts of that battle, about ten miles east, near a village. We were supposed to be part of a flanking unit, to come up behind the Chinese forces and do some damage from the rear, but it didn't work out that way. A unit of Chinese must have had the same idea, and we met them in a little valley, away from the main battle, away from everything."

He finished the whiskey and poured himself another shot, staring down into it as he allowed those memories to return, not all together, but one by one.

"That was the first time I saw demons. They were riding those Chinese soldiers, and their purpose was not the war. There was a gate in the valley, just a small one, but during the initial skirmishing, before we'd even realised what we were facing, they wiped every man, woman and child in that village, over three hundred people, to open the gate."

He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, his eyes hooded. "The ground in front of the gate was red and it stank of blood. The demons that came out of the hole were like the ones we found here, some soldier demons, some smoke. About half of our force was possessed immediately, turning on each and adding to the body count. Of the other half … well, some of them ran, and who could blame them? Some stayed, and we closed up together, back to back, just hoping we could kill them before we ran out of ammo because there was no way any supply line would reach us."

They'd been a week's march from the nearest line, and they'd all known that help would never come, not for them, not in time. He'd told himself that he was going to die on that blood-soaked ground, and he'd guessed that the others had been facing the same thing.

"We were down to three men, and I fell to my knees and pretty much gave myself up for dead. We couldn't kill the demons, and it didn't matter to them that their victims were dead, they rode them anyway. I had my Bible in my duffle, and I pulled it out, thinking that maybe I could give us last rites or something like that."

"That was the moment I found God," he said simply, looking at them, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. "There are times when I still don't believe it – what happened, what I felt. I pulled out that old book and I held it in my left hand and it … it started to glow. I had my hunting knife in my right, not sure what I was planning to do with it, maybe take my life, if it looked like it was going to get bad … I don't know. But the light went from the Bible to the knife … through me …" he hesitated, unsure of how to explain it, wanting the men listening to him to know what had happened, what it had made him feel.

"That knife started to glow and it grew, from a twelve inch pig sticker to four foot long. It became a sword, glowing with a white light that was so bright you couldn't look at it, covered in white flames that leapt and burned, but were cool."

The two men sitting opposite were staring at him. Jim looked from one to the other, then away, drawing in a deep breath. His chest was tight. The memories were ones he couldn't take out too often. They were too full of the things that had driven him his whole life, from that moment on.

"I didn't know what had happened, but I felt a wave of strength pour inside me, as if I was plugged into a power station, the same burning white flames that covered the sword were filling me up. I could see that the demons and the Chinese soldiers could see it, see it coming out of me like – hell, I don't know what. I stood up and lifted that sword and I started to swing it. I don't remember what happened … exactly … by sundown I was standing next to the gate, and I touched the sword to the stone and the gate closed, same as you saw it close and seal today, just closed and sealed itself up without so much as a crack to show where it'd been. And every enemy soldier, and every demon, was dead. Every one. My companions, the two who had been with me were alive but unconscious. Everyone else, every _thing_ else was dead."

He grinned self-consciously at the expressions on Bill and John's faces, swallowing hard at the emotions that pressed inside his throat. "I looked down at the knife, and it was just a knife again, just the same hunting knife I'd brought from home. And the Bible in my hand was just a book again."

It could've been yesterday, he thought, lifting his glass and downing a mouthful, grateful to feel the fiery path of the liquor washing back those feelings. Some days it felt like it was yesterday and he was young and strong and innocent again. Some days it felt as if it'd never happened. Closing his eyes, he took another mouthful.

"When I got home, I joined the seminary. Became a pastor. Moved to Blue Earth, and here I am."

Bill shook his head slightly. "God … gave you his power? To kill the demons and shut the gate?"

"I think he probably sent Michael," Jim said, opening his eyes and looking at Bill. "To do the job using my body, but yeah, for the first time in my life, I learned to have faith. Learned that God has his reasons for doing what he does, for allowing this to happen, or preventing that from happening. I had my faith in something bigger than me, bigger than all the petty crap that passes for problems."

He finished the whiskey and leaned toward John, putting his hand on the younger mans' shoulder. "Don't give in, John. Don't give in to hate and despair and rage – something is going to come of this, something that we all have a part in."

John looked bleakly into Jim's eyes. "I might need a little time to come to that position, Jim. I know you have your proof, you have your faith. But I don't … not yet."


	5. Chapter 5 Bitter Tears

**Chapter 5 Bitter Tears**

* * *

"_It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you."  
― David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary_

* * *

_**1986. December. Maple Rapids. Michigan.**_

John looked at the bottle on the table. It was almost empty. How much had he been drinking, these last couple of months? _Too much_, his mind replied, with a spearing clarity in the midst of the fog that filled him.

It wasn't blunting the edges any more, he knew. The conflict was in himself. He still loved Mary, more than his life, more than anything he'd ever dreamed to have or hold. But now, the bitterness of the knowledge he'd gained was tainting that love, poisoning it against him, and a part of him already hated her. Hated her for the mistake that had at once, given him the life he'd loved, the woman and the children he adored, and, at the same time, sowed the seeds for it be taken it away from him completely.

He didn't know how to resolve that conflict. Didn't know how to put the shattered pieces of a trust he'd never before doubted back together and move on, pay attention to what he did, pay attention to the boys who were looking to him for love and guidance and help.

He'd left Blue Earth as soon as they'd returned, thanked Geny and Valentina, and without a word of explanation, taken the boys and headed south and east. They'd driven through the day and the night and the next day, and stopped finally, at Maple Rapids, a tiny town in the middle of Michigan. The boys started school again. He got a job. They found the cabin to rent. And here they were, three months later, approaching the bitter cold end of the year, and his head, and his heart – and his very soul – were still in pieces.

Getting up from the table slowly, he was acutely aware that while the whiskey hadn't done much to blunt his thoughts, it had removed most of his finer motor skills and his body couldn't always be counted on to do what he thought it was going to. He stumbled into the bathroom, relieving himself and turning to the sink. He washed his hands, ducking his head to splash the frigid water over his face, and lifted his head, staring at the stranger in the mirror. He'd lost weight, a lot of it, from not eating. He wanted to eat, mostly, but it was too much effort when the bottle, or a bottle anyway, was always there, pour another glass and the hunger went away for a while.

The shadows under his eyes were from lack of sleep. The nightmares were back on the agenda, worse than before, as the pain that lived in his chest was worse than before. He hadn't believed anything could be worse than the way he felt after losing her. But he was wrong. This was worse. It was much worse because he couldn't just mourn her and miss her, anymore. Now his mind had introduced blame. And guilt. And the cold, slow burn of hatred. It didn't make any difference that he knew without the choice she'd made, there would have been no family for him, no life at all. He was fixated on the night in the nursery when everything he'd believed in was proven a lie, when the demons had walked and death had talked and nothing, nothing could ever be the same for him again.

He picked up the near empty bottle and tipped the final mouthful down his throat, his fingers clenching around the smooth glass as a slim jet of fury escaped his control. He threw his head back and launched the empty bottle across the room, hearing it smash against the fieldstone hearth. The fury, though satisfied for the moment, was far from quenched.

And in the morning, he'd have to get up and clean up the glass, before the boys got up and their feet found the shards.

He shook his head wearily and looked around at the simple but homey room. The boys slept in the upstairs bedroom, with plenty of space to keep them from fighting too much. He'd taken the downstairs bedroom, between the bathroom and the kitchen. He was less likely to break his fool neck that way.

* * *

Dean grinned at his brother as they ran home from school. The cabin was a little over a mile from the town, along a quiet road, and in spite of the frigid conditions, both boys enjoyed walking to and from the little school, the woods that lined the road could be mined for adventures on the way, or if there was snow, they built snowmen and had running snowball fights … neither had known this long a period of stability and routine for a couple of years now.

Today was the twenty third. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. He was hoping that Dad would be okay enough to help them have a proper Christmas, like they'd had when they lived in Lawrence, and Mom was alive. He missed the excitement, the rituals of the holiday, and yeah, he acknowledged readily, he missed the presents too.

Sammy had never known a proper Christmas, not one with a tree, and a dinner, and snow and gifts, wrapped up in foil and tissue paper, bright with ribbons and little cards conferring absolute ownership. He wanted his brother to know at least one, even if they were back on the road for the next one, he knew that Dad wasn't going anywhere for this one. He thought hard about what they'd need. They had the star for a tree; his father had given it to him when they'd left Lawrence. It was a delicate thing of wire and foil and sparkling white glitter and Dean had kept it safe, in a wooden cigar box in his bag so that it couldn't be broken, couldn't be crushed. They needed a tree, and he slowed down, kicking through the thin crust of snow that covered the shoulder of the road with his boots, looking around for a small pine or fir that would be easy to take home.

"What are you doing?" Sammy dropped to a walk beside his brother, his breath huffing out in clouds of white, looking around, trying to see what Dean was looking for.

"Looking for a Christmas tree of course, you ass," Dean told him, loftily, but without malice. He felt joyful and he couldn't be mean to Sam the day before Christmas Eve, even if the little sucker deserved it.

"Really?" Sam started to look at the trees as well. "What about that one?"

He pointed to a small, beautifully even tree between two larger ones. Its needles were a deep shade of blue-green, with the light dusting of snow over it, it looked as perfect a tree as either boy had ever seen.

Dean bit his lip, wishing he'd seen it first. Finding the tree, well that was the oldest's job, he thought. But he liked the tree, he really did.

"That's a great tree, Sammy," he acknowledged magnanimously. "Good job, I think you found our tree." He grinned at Sam, and Sam smiled back, basking in Dean's unalloyed goodwill, a situation that wasn't rare, exactly, just not that common.

"How do we get it home?" Sam looked at the tree. It wasn't that tall, maybe as tall as his brother, but it looked solidly rooted. He didn't think they could pull it out. Dean walked over to it, crouching down to look at the trunk.

"We'll get the saw, and cut it … here." He pointed to the position, just above the ground. "Then we need a tub to put it, so that it'll stand up straight and we can keep it green with water."

He stood up, brushing the snow off his hands on his jeans. "Come on, I'll race you home, we gotta tell Dad."

* * *

The boys were sitting on the floor, playing a half-assed game of Snap, Dean letting Sam win, mostly, when John pulled in front of the cabin. Dean got up, running to the window and watching his father pull out a bag of groceries from the passenger seat, lock the car and come toward the house. He turned back to Sam.

"Okay, let me do the talking, you'll just make him mad or something."

"But -" Sam started to protest.

"You do want to have Christmas this year, don't you?" Dean cut him off, his expression serious and forbidding. Sam nodded, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He didn't remember much about last year's holidays, but this year was different. This year he was in little school.

"Okay then." Dean nodded as if the matter was settled. Well, it was settled.

John came into the house and walked into the kitchen, glancing at the boys as he passed.

"You two have a good day today?" He dumped the grocery sack on the counter and opened the fridge, pulling out a beer.

"Yes, sir." Dean wandered to the table, sitting in one the chairs.

"Sam?" John prised the top off the beer and swallowed a mouthful, looking at Sam.

"Yes, sir, we did lots of art today - look." Sam pulled out a large sheet of paper, glowing with the mix of colours.

"That's great. Art. Well, alright." He turned and put the beer down, unpacking the groceries and putting them away in the cupboards and the fridge. "What do you two want for dinner?"

Dean glanced at Sam and shook his head slightly. "Uh … what's the choice?"

John looked over his shoulder at his oldest boy, feeling his patience thin slightly. It happened quickly and he drew in a breath, forcing a calm over the top of the emotions that were trembling for release. "Choice, huh? Well, there's soup, burgers … or canned spaghetti."

"Can we have burgers?"

"Sure, that's why I bought the meat." He straightened up and looked around. "You boys clean up in here, and get your rooms all squared away."

"Uh … Dad?" Dean took a breath. He couldn't read his father's mood, and it bothered him, it was something he was usually pretty good at.

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Tomorrow's … uh … Christmas Eve."

John turned and looked at him. "We'll talk about it later, okay? Just do what I asked and go and clean up now."

Dean nodded, sliding off the chair and walking to help Sam pick up the cards. There hadn't been anything – bad – in his father's voice, but the warning had been there, just the same. He'd try again later, he thought, looking down at his brother. For Sammy's sake.

* * *

John watched Dean as he cleared away the dishes, stacking them and taking them to the sink. He could see the tension in the boy, and he knew what he wanted to ask. Christmas. He hadn't thought much of Christmas since they'd left Lawrence. Even less after they'd had to leave Blue Earth. He looked down at the beer in his hand, exhaling softly.

The boys deserved more of a childhood than they were getting, they needed events like Christmas and birthdays and all the milestones that people used through the year. The fact that it was another Christmas without her, standing on the ladder and smiling down at him as he handed her the ridiculously gaudy star to settle on the top of the tree, that it was tearing him apart inside, was not as important as his kids having some good memories from this upside-down and broken life.

He leaned against his elbow, resting on the table, and rubbed his eyes. Last year, he hadn't bothered with Christmas because it had hurt too much. This year … had he been alone, he wouldn't have bothered because it underlined the dishonesty that had been present in the marriage its entire length – a dishonesty that had made a mockery of his feelings, that made a mockery of the very institution of marriage.

Again he was at the same crossroads. The same stalemate. He couldn't get past it, no matter how much he tried to understand, to accept and forgive and forget. The rage rose up again, and he stood, walking to the high corner cupboard in the kitchen and opening it, pulling out the bottle and a glass. He set them down on the counter and looked at them. He'd leave them there, he thought, until the boys were in bed, asleep.

He turned away and saw Dean standing uncomfortably by the fridge, watching him. He felt the rage tighten his chest, throb in his temples, a rage that veered toward his son, that Dean was witnessing his breakdown, seeing him as a father should never be seen, naked and vulnerable in his pain. He felt his jaw muscle jump as he set his teeth together, forcing the rage back down, where it couldn't explode out of him, where it couldn't hurt his child.

"Give me a minute, Dean. I need some fresh air." He winced inwardly at the rawness of his voice, turning away and walking blindly toward the front door, his muscles shaking with the effort of controlling himself, controlling the emotions that were so close all the time to overwhelming him.

* * *

Dean watched him walk across the room, open the door and step outside. He knew that his father was angry, but knew that the anger wasn't directed at him, not entirely. His father had changed when he'd come from back from the job with Bill and Pastor Jim. He didn't know why. But he could see the rage most of the time now, sometimes below the surface, like the sandbars he'd seen when they'd visited the ocean, under the water but just visible in the way that the water moved over them; at other times fully there, jagged rocks right out of the water, and he kept Sammy away from Dad at those times, as far as he could because Dad wasn't like himself at all then.

He remembered the night the shapeshifter had come into Uncle Ben's house, pretending to be his father. This wasn't like that. Then, he'd known instantly that it wasn't his Dad at all, just a monster with his father's face. Now, though, mostly it was Dad, but it was as if he were fighting something that had gotten inside of him, something that made him mad, and sad, and helpless, all at the same time. He wanted to help but he didn't know how. When the anger rose, he was too afraid. And sometimes, when the sadness came, he was also afraid – afraid that if he made his Dad talk about it, it might break him.

So he kept away when he saw his father struggling. And he kept his little brother away as well, some instinct telling him that although Sam was his father's favourite, there was something in the rage and the fear and the sadness that was more dangerous to Sammy than it was to him.

* * *

John stood outside on the small porch, staring sightlessly at the sky, black as coal, spread over with a billion stars. He dragged breath after breath deep inside his lungs, exhaling with the same determination, feeling the tightness in his chest, the pounding in his skull, dissolving and disappearing as his emotions receded reluctantly. Nothing scared him more than the film of red that came across his eyes when the fury he didn't truly understand was at its peak, as if he were turning into something else, something that could do anything and not care about the consequences. He'd come close to becoming that, over the last three years, when he was out hunting down the ghosts and monsters on his own. But he'd never brought it home; it had always seemed to be satisfied with the catharsis of violence against the unnatural.

A part of him blamed Mary for the change. Blamed her for the helplessness he felt, that he couldn't control himself, that he was falling apart. But he knew, at a deeper level, that was a lie.

_No man should have to face this_, he thought, the thought wound around with despair. Something had come out of the darkness, something that Mary had invited in, and it had killed her and left him without an enemy to fight, without a solid lead to follow, with a marrow-deep terror that he hadn't been able to protect her and he wouldn't be able to protect his children. He knew that his anger, out of control often, was a product of the fear that riddled his every cell. There was no escape from the fear. No solution to it. Except what he was doing.

He leaned against the railing and let his head drop onto his forearms, let the quiet of the night seep into him, soothe him. After awhile, he straightened, feeling the thin veneer of a surface calm returning. He walked back inside.

"Okay, Dean." He sat down at the table, and looked at his son. "Let's have it."

Dean looked at him, a little cautiously at first, becoming more confident as he saw that the rage and the sadness were truly gone from his father, at least for now.

"I just wondered if we could have a Christmas this year?" he asked softly. "Sam hasn't really had one, and we found a great tree today – actually, Sammy found it – but it's not too big, and really pretty – but we don't have any lights or decorations for it, and Sam never had a proper Christmas before, not the way I have -" He closed his mouth on the words that had been about to come out, words that might ignite his father again, his brain feverishly hunting for a substitute. "… and well, we're not on the road this year, so can we? Have a proper Christmas? Can we?"

John tilted his head, his heart suddenly expanding with love for the little boy who stood in front of him, seeing the need for something special in this life, thinking of his baby brother who'd had precious little that was special, trying so hard to avoid upsetting his father. _He's growing up too fast_, the voice in his head said harshly. _You're _making_ him grow up too fast_. He sighed quietly. _I know_.

"Yeah, okay, I don't see why not." He leaned forward and extracted his wallet from his back pocket. "You know, I have to work tomorrow, Dean – and well, you know that sometimes Christmas makes me kind of sad …"

Dean nodded, looking at the floor.

"So, why don't you go and get what you want from the store in town, and I'll give you a hand with the tree when I get home from work, okay?"

Dean's eyes widened as his father pulled a fifty from his wallet, holding it out to him. Fifty dollars. For Christmas stuff. He took the bill carefully, looking down at it, turning it to look at the picture of President Ulysses S Grant on the front. John watched him, his mouth tucking in at the corners as he hid a smile at the boy's awestruck expression.

"Looks kind of grouchy, doesn't he?"

Dean looked up. "Yeah, but maybe it's a hard thing, to be on so much money."

John blinked. Plainly, he'd never thought of that before. He reached out and patted Dean's shoulder. "That's true. It's a lot of money, so don't you lose it."

"I won't, sir. No way." He folded the bill neatly and slid it into the front pocket of his jeans, looking up at his father. He launched himself into John's arms without the slightest hint that he was going to, and John held him tightly as the chair teetered slightly, breathing in the scent of his son, his hair and skin, still so close to babyhood. For a long, long moment they didn't move, just held each other tightly, because this way they could say what was needed without the words screwing it up.

* * *

It had been a lot harder walking home with all the stuff, especially as halfway he'd had to carry Sam's bags as well, because the kid had no stamina. He looked down at the bags, bunched in his hands, the bounty that his father's money had bought them. There were lights and balls and tinsel and even a couple of lame stockings to hang over the fireplace. He'd bought Sam's gift secretly, and given Sam ten dollars to find something for him and Dad. His present to his father was the best present of all.

The cabin came into view and Sammy ran ahead, Dean watching his brother's unencumbered state with a mixture of annoyance and resignation, tinged with a very faint feeling of satisfaction. His job, he'd understood for some time now, was to look after his brother. It didn't occur to him that he was losing his own childhood with that unnoticed burden. He trudged up the packed snow on the path, the heavy carry bags bumping against his legs and his arms aching. Putting the bags down as he reached the door, he pulled out the key and unlocked it, pushing it open and picking up the bags again as Sammy ran inside and headed for the small kitchen. Kicking the door shut behind him, he followed, dumping the bags by the table as his brother dropped dramatically into one of the chairs around it.

Sammy leaned his head on his hand. "I'm hungry. And tired."

Dean frowned, looking at him irritably. He had a load of chores to do before their father got home. "You had a snack in town. You can't be hungry again."

"I am, I am hungry." Sam's voice started to rise and Dean sighed, tearing his gaze away from the bags to go to the counter.

"You can have a cheese sandwich. That's it." He pulled out the loaf, taking out two slices and spreading them with butter.

"Okay." Sam looked down at the bags. "When do we get the tree?"

"When Dad gets home." Dean grinned a little to himself. He and Sam could trim the tree, and he'd put the star on the top, just like Mom had. His memories were fading. He didn't like to admit to that but they were. Not of everything. Just … sometimes he couldn't remember how their days had been, together in Lawrence when Sam'd been only a tiny baby. Or what she'd read to him when they'd sat on the sofa and waited for his father to get home. Little things. "We'd better move this stuff out of the way before he gets here."

He cut the sandwich in half and put it on a plate, plunking the plate down on the table in front of his little brother. "Okay, eat. Then help me."

Leaving the bags with the decorations to one side, he picked up the ones that contained the presents and carried them upstairs, putting Sam's purchases on his bed, and hiding his under the bed. He'd even bought some wrapping paper so that the presents would look right. He sighed with satisfaction and turned and ran down the stairs.

His Dad hated mess in the place, and he wondered where he could put the bags of decorations where they wouldn't be noticeable or in the way until it was time to trim the tree. He prowled around the living area and saw the space behind the big couch. Perfect. They would be out of sight but easy to find. Sam was still chewing desultorily on the first half of his sandwich, belying the claim of hunger, and Dean shrugged off his frustration. Little kids were like that, he thought with the years of experience of an eight year old.

He needed something to put the tree into, when they got it home. There was nothing in the cabin that would do the job, but maybe in the shed at the back … he pulled his jacket back off the hook and shrugged into it, throwing a look at Sam over his shoulder.

"Stay here, I'm just going to look for a bucket or something for the tree."

Sam nodded readily. He'd carried the bags nearly all the way home. He was tired. He picked up his plate and walked to the TV, turning it on and walking back to the couch. Sitting with the plate held on his lap, he watched the cartoons, forgetting the rule about eating on the couch.

* * *

Dean heard the Impala pull in off the road ten minutes later. He'd found an old metal drum that would be perfect for holding the tree, and he picked it up and ran back around the house with it, delighted with himself for having everything ready in time.

He was just approaching the front door when he heard his father's voice, raised and filled with the rage that frightened him, and terrified Sammy.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sam?"

There was a crash as a plate or glass hit something hard and smashed, and Dean dropped the drum and ran inside, his only thought to get Sam out of the firing line. He could imagine what his brother had done.

"It wasn't his fault -" he said as he came through the short hallway and into the living room, seeing Sammy on the floor, his sandwich and plate lying in pieces against the other wall, the TV half pulled off the cabinet, his father standing over Sam, face dark with anger, eyes almost black beneath his drawn brows.

"No, it's not his fault, it's yours." John turned around and glared at his oldest son. "Where the hell were you?"

"I was just at the shed, looking for -" he stopped, because it didn't matter what he was looking for, his father only cared about the fact that he wasn't in the house, watching Sam, making sure that the rules were followed. "I'm sorry, Dad."

John stared at him, his pulse pounding in his ears. A distant part of him was shaking with disgust at the fear he could see in his boys' eyes. But the rage had control at the moment, the rage and the fear that the whiskey he'd been drinking for the last hour at the bar in town hadn't been able to overcome.

He watched as Dean walked to Sam, pulling him away and helping him to his feet. He was aware that his hands had clenched into fists, that the muscles and cords of his neck and shoulders and arms were standing out as he held himself still, stopped himself from moving.

Dean pushed Sammy up the first few stairs, whispering to him to go to the bedroom, quickly. Sam kept his eyes on the next stair, reduced to clambering up them using his hands as well as his feet as the fear churned inside him. _It had been a mistake, just a mistake …he hadn't meant to forget the rule_. But like Dean, he already knew, at three and a half, that the reasons didn't matter. Not once their father looked like this. He scurried up to the bedroom and dove for his bed, pulling the covers over him completely.

Dean watched him go, and turned around to face his father, bracing himself for the fury that was coming. He'd become his brother's protector in last two years, he was used to taking the blame for his little brother's mistakes, for his own when he didn't remember this rule or that. He didn't think about it. It just was.

John looked at him now, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. If he hadn't been so close to exploding, he'd have laughed at the unconscious courage of the little boy standing in front of him. But laughter was very far away.

"You're responsible for what happens in this house when I'm not here," he grated out, the adrenalin rushing through his bloodstream making it impossible to calm down, amping up his desire to hit something – anything. "Right? You know that, right?"

"Yes, sir." Dean stared at the floor. He heard his father inhale noisily, his breath rasping through his throat.

"Get out my sight, Dean."

Dean turned away, feeling the prick of the tears at the back of his eyes, the rise of them in his throat. Tears would make it worse, he knew, he had to get going – now.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs abruptly, and turned to look at his father again. He'd made a promise to Sam, and he had to keep it.

"What about the tree, Dad?"

John turned. "You forgotten how to take order, boy?"

"No, sir," Dean said, his voice high and wavering through a throat that was suddenly too tight, his eyes shining, his lower lip trembling. "I promised Sammy we would have Christmas. I told him that we could have a Christmas like when Mom was alive."

John felt himself moving before he realised he was doing it. His long strides carried him across the living room and to the stairs in seconds and he stared down at Dean, his heart thumping against his ribcage, his breath roaring in and out of his throat.

"What did you say?"

Dean flinched backwards at the tone of the voice, but he stayed where he was. "I promised Sammy, Dad, I promised him."

"Don't you ever – don't you _ever_ speak to me about her again, Dean – you understand? Never!"

That black fury, tangled between his memories and his knowledge, between what he'd lost and what he feared and what he still had to do, rose as the words thundered out of his throat, accompanied by a tinge of red in his vision, a tinge that told him there was no control left. Shuddering involuntarily, John wheeled around as his mind filled with images and his fear finally overrode the anger, fear of the things that his mind was conjuring, fear of the film of red that had drawn over his eyes, fear of what might happen if he stayed another second in that spot. His hand swung out with the turn, and he felt it collide with something – _not something_, a screeching voice in his head screamed at him, _your son!_ – and he walked away, unable to turn to and look back, walking fast to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Dean picked himself up, his hand cupping the sore spot under his cheekbone as he watched his father leave. It was throbbing and he knew he'd have a headache in a few minutes, to go with the ache along the bone. It hadn't been deliberate, he knew that much, but he was shocked – at his father's anger, which he thought was at his mother now – and he felt his legs shaking as he started to climb the stairs to the bedroom.

He reached the bedroom door and opened it quietly, slipping inside and closing it again behind him. He could see Sam's hunched form under the covers of his bed. He walked over to him slowly, gently lifting the covers aside and pulling off his brother's sneakers. He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers moving gently over the rapidly swelling lump on his face, and let his tears go, feeling them splash onto his arms and legs as he pushed his boots off, wriggled out of his jeans, and slid beneath the covers next to Sammy.

* * *

John sat on the floor of the bathroom, dry retching into the toilet bowl. The whiskey, the half-digested remains of his lunch were gone. But he couldn't stop throwing up, every time he relived the sense memory of his hand striking Dean's face, he would gasp and heave again, his stomach aching and his throat coated in the acrid taste of the bile he was ejecting in dribbles.

He let himself slide down to the cool tiled floor, closing his eyes. _You're either going to kill yourself, or you're going to kill one of them_, the voice in his mind said, and he couldn't disagree, couldn't argue.

_I made a single mistake, John, I chose to keep you alive, so that we could be together, instead of leaving you dead. And I did it from love. What you're doing now – that's not love, that's revenge and hatred and anger at me for taking away what we had. And you know that if I hadn't made that choice, we wouldn't have had it anyway. You wouldn't have had anything._

He opened his eyes, staring across the floor at the skirting board on the other side of the room. He knew whose voice it was now, that cool, pragmatic and often cutting voice that sometimes seemed to apart from him entirely. It was Mary's, of course.

_I know._

_Then get your crap together and DEAL WITH IT._

_How? HOW?_

_You're angry at me, John, so let's have it out here and now. I did it. I made the deal with the yellow-eyed demon – me, no one else. I couldn't let you die, and I thought that I could handle it when the time was up. I didn't know what it wanted to do to Sam, I swear that to you._

He shook as grief came like a wave, washing over him and through him, grief for her, for them both, for his baby boy, who was now forever marked because a demon had offered her a deal that she couldn't refuse. He didn't blame her. He would have done the same thing, he knew that, he _knew_ it. But oh, how he wished she'd told him, so that they could have faced the thing together, in love, instead of with the secret between them, a poison he hadn't even known about, but one which was going to reverberate throughout his life, and the lives of his sons.

_You should have told me, Mary, you should have trusted me and told me the truth. We could have fought together!_

I know_._

* * *

He woke, lying on the cold tiles, not knowing what the time was, not knowing where he was for a long moment. He felt empty, hollowed out. The fury – his fury at her betrayal, her deception – that had gone, and the guilt and the blame. He still wanted revenge, but that anger was colder, quieter, infinitely more long-lasting. It would see the distance and still be strong when he came face to face with the bastard.

He rolled onto his knees, feeling a headache pounding at the back of his skull, enough of a hangover to remind him that drinking to forget was a piss-poor idea. Reaching up to grip the edge of the sink, he pulled himself upright, and turned on the tap, sloshing the water into his mouth and rinsing it out, splashing it over his face. He had a lot of reparation to do, and, he glanced at his watch, unsurprised at the early hour, not much time to do it in.

He wiped his face and opened the door, stepping out into the cold house. The first thing was the tree, he thought, and he walked to the door, pulling his jacket off the hook and shrugging into it, patting the pocket to check if his gloves were there.

* * *

Sammy stretched and yawned, his arm bumping his brother. He looked over at Dean in surprise, then in shock.

"Dean."

Dean opened his eyes reluctantly, and looked at his little brother's face. He shook his head slightly.

"It's okay, Sammy. It was an accident."

Sam didn't look convinced. Dean smiled and remembered what day it was. The smile disappeared abruptly.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. I tried to keep my promise, but I just couldn't." He rolled out of the bed and crossed the short distance to his, dropping to the floor to look under it for the present he'd bought for his little brother. It wasn't there. He looked over the top of the bed.

"Did you open it already?"

Sammy looked at him. "Open what?"

"Your present, dummy!" He ducked down again, lying flat on the floor, his eyes searching the entire underside of the bed.

A chilling thought occurred to him and he got up, running to the door and opening it. Dad had been mad, last night, really mad, but he wouldn't have – he couldn't have come up …

Dean stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared.

"Sammy." He thought he'd shouted the name, but it came out as a croak. "Sammy!"

Footsteps sounded behind him and he felt his brother bump into him softly as Sam's attention was taken by the sight in the living room.

Beside the couch, the little blue-green tree was covered in decorations – balls, and tinsel, candy canes and those weird foil things that were supposed to be icicles but just looked like weird foil things. On top of it, his mother's star glowed white in the early morning light coming through the windows. Lights had been strung around it and they shone from within the needles, glowing over the balls and illuminating the star and the branches themselves. The scent of pine filled the room.

Dean took the last step down to the living room and walked slowly across the floor. Underneath the tree were presents – a lot of presents, and he crouched beside the tree, staring at the bright wrapping paper, the shiny ribbon, the cardboard gift tags that hung from each one.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sammy said softly beside him, kneeling and looking at the tags.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas, Sammy." He looked around the room, seeing it clean and tidy, with a bowl of nuts and chocolates on the low table, a plush reindeer with a large, red nose sitting on top of the TV.

The door to their father's bedroom opened, and Dean looked over as his father came out, showered and shaved, in clean clothes, smelling of nothing but a faint whiff of aftershave.

He saw a look of wretchedness pass over his father's face, and lifted his hand to touch the sore swelling along his cheek. He tried not to flinch when Dad hurried over to him, crouched beside him, but he couldn't help it. He saw that his movement hurt his father, the hand that had been reaching to him stopped in mid-air as if it had hit a wall.

"I'm sorry, Dean," the words came out in a hoarse whisper, and Dean ducked his head, looking down at the floor, unable to look at his father's eyes. He felt the big hand touch his shoulder, slide slowly around his back, and pull him close as his father settled onto the floor and put his arms around him. For a moment, it was as if nothing had happened, but he knew that it had, something big had happened, and it would take a while to figure out just what it was. He felt different, in himself; and he felt differently about the man who held him now, the man who was the most important person in the world to him.

John laid his cheek on his son's head, wanting more than anything to take back everything that had happened in the previous twenty-four hours. He'd made his peace with the past, but the cost had been too high.

He looked over Dean's head into his youngest son's face, seeing a mixture of fear and awe in his eyes, and held out his arm. Sammy crawled slowly toward them, and curled into the space next to his brother, under his father's arm. John held them both, his tears falling into their hair as he tried to think of a way to explain his insanity to them, a way they could understand that it was over, this time for good.

Dean turned the knife over in his hands, looking up at his father, not knowing what to say. It was a pocket knife, the larger blade folding into the handle and a smaller blade folded into the other side. Not quite Swiss Army, but a good beginner's model for an almost-eight-year old.

"Thanks, Dad!"

Sammy was sitting on the couch next to his father, his hands running lightly over the pages of the big book, his eyes devouring the pictures as he turned from page to page. The book was titled 'Native American Indian Mythology' and contained a dozen stories of the legends of the peoples of their nation.

John held a silver flask, with a beautifully chased and embossed leather surround. When he'd opened it, he'd looked at it in shock, unable to hide his expression from his sharp-eyed son.

"It's like Uncle Jim's, Dad." Dean looked up at him, frowning. He'd gotten up from the floor and climbed onto the couch next to his father, whispering in his ear so that Sammy wouldn't hear it. "You know, for holy water."

At that, John had started laughing, and hadn't been able to stop for a few minutes. He'd hugged Dean tightly and nodded. "Thanks, Dean. It will definitely be a part of the work tools."

Dean had slid back to the floor, smiling to himself. He knew his had been the best gift!

* * *

Sam pulled on his jeans and sat on the bed to do up his sneakers.

"Dean, do you think Mom would have enjoyed this Christmas?"

Dean looked up at him, and felt a strange anger rise in him. "Sammy, don't do that again. We don't talk about Mom anymore."

His brother looked up, his mouth open in wide 'O' of surprise. "Why not?"

Dean was over the bed and in front of his brother before he'd realised what he going to do. He grabbed Sammy's shoulders, thin and slight under his hands, and shook him slightly.

"Because I said so. Don't talk about Mom again. Alright?"

* * *

_And sometimes, the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children._

_Euripides__, Phrixus_


	6. Chapter 6 Almost Unreal

**Chapter 6 Almost Unreal**

* * *

_Men are so simple and yield so readily to __the __desires of the moment that he who will trick will always find another who will suffer to be tricked.  
~ Niccolo Machiavelli._

* * *

_**1987. Bedford, Iowa.**_

John looked around the quiet bar. Nothing had changed in the three years since he'd last sat here, watching Peg Colson's eyes fill with tears at the news he'd brought with him. Of course, Peg's eyes were dry now, and that was a relief. She had apparently softened her opinion of him since she'd seen him last, perhaps because he was still alive.

"It's good to see you again, John." She smiled at him, her startling looks unchanged, as striking as ever. "You look old."

John's mouth stretched into a reluctant smile at that. It was true. The three years had aged him more than the previous thirty three had managed.

"You look beautiful, Peg," he said sincerely, head tilting to one side and her smile widened.

"Look at you, all that charm buried for so long," Peg teased him lightly, then leaned on the bar toward him. "I can't tell you how much I'd like to explore that in more depth, but I do have a couple of people I think you should meet."

He raised an eyebrow at her, biting back the words that sprang into his mind, contenting himself with something less controversial. "Who would that be?"

She turned her head slightly, looking past him to the small tables. He turned his head as well, following her gaze. At the closest table, two men sat, heads bent together in deep conversation.

"The one on the left is Bobby Singer. He's been hunting for about ten years now; the other one is his partner, Rufus Turner. He's been hunting for twenty five years. They're working on a case now, asked if I knew of anyone who might be available to help out," Peg told him. "They're both good, you could learn a lot from them." Her fingertips brushed along the bare skin of his wrist, just below the shirt cuff.

She turned back to him, and he looked into her deep brown eyes thoughtfully. He no longer felt the inequality between them, that sense he'd had when he first met her that she was a soldier of vastly more experience. And more importantly, he had a feeling that she didn't feel that way either anymore.

For a moment he was tempted. It had been a long time. And she was beautiful. But something told him that Peg wasn't interested in a moment of passion. She would want a lot more from him than he was prepared to give. So, he leaned back slightly and nodded to her, his eyes warm and friendly.

She looked at him and smiled, acknowledging that the invitation had been received, considered and courteously declined. There were no hard feelings. He was a good-looking man, and now, she could feel a real strength to him, a confidence in himself and his abilities that, for her at least, had always been the most seductive thing in a partner.

"Come on." She straightened up and walked down the length of the bar, lifting the hatch and coming out, walking with an animal grace and the unconscious dignity of a queen. He followed her to the table, indulging himself in a moment of regret.

"Bobby, Rufus – this is John Winchester. He's free to help out if you still want a hand." She stood aside slightly as John shook hands with the two men.

Bobby Singer was in his fifties, pale freckled skin and dark red hair standing out against the green check flannel shirt and padded hunting vest he wore. He pushed the baseball cap back a little, looking up at John with a trace of wariness in shadowed hazel eyes. Rufus was older, maybe late fifties, John thought, unable to nail his age more closely than that. The hunter's face was surprisingly smooth for a man with his years, his hair and beard still jet. He looked up, his face unsmiling, but warmth filling the dark brown eyes.

"Not sure what we're hunting," Bobby said shortly, looking across at Rufus. Rufus snorted.

"He's never sure what we're hunting till it's lying dead on the floor," he said to no one in particular. "Sit down, John, we'll tell you all about it. Peggy, me darlin', how about another round?"

John glanced at Peg, one eyebrow raised. Peg widened her eyes at him, lifting a shoulder in a shrug as she turned away and returned to the bar. He watched her go and sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Bobby pushed a pile of folders, filled with notes, toward him across the table. "Knock yerself out."

Opening the folder on the top of the pile, John looked through it. The first page was an area map and he frowned as he recognised the region. "Idaho? The reservation?"

"Well, he can read a map," Bobby grunted, picking up his beer and taking a swallow. "That's a help."

John ignored that, and looked at Rufus. "Some kind of local trouble, native lore?"

"Uh … well that's where it gets … interesting. Keep reading, we'll have question time later." Rufus looked around the bar, frowning. "Shouldn't he have been here by now?" he asked irritably of Bobby.

"Frank has no ascertainable timetable. You know that." Bobby shrugged. "He'll be here."

John looked through the pages of notes, speculations, locations and summaries, trying to keep his mind empty, waiting for something to set off an alarm. The details were vague, at best. He looked at the last summary in astonishment. The town's name was Winchester.

"Is this right?" He looked at Bobby. "The town is called Winchester?"

"Funny coincidence alright." Bobby nodded. Rufus peered over the table at the file.

"They named it in 1900, mostly because everyone in town had a Winchester rifle and they liked the name. Nothing to do with you."

John nodded slowly. Well, the boys would like it, and this was a hunt they could go with him on. He put down the files and picked up his beer.

"So. Any ideas?" Bobby glanced at him dubiously.

"It's a small town, population three hundred and twenty, as at the last census. Demographic primarily white and no racial problems to speak of. Doesn't seem likely that it's witchcraft, although it's possible. The first victim died of a heart attack, but there's not much detail on that."

"Yeah, that's why we're waiting for Frank." Rufus glanced around again. "The ever-reliable Frank."

"Who's Frank?" John looked from Rufus to Bobby, feeling the tension between the two men.

"Frank's a nutcase," Rufus said bluntly.

"He's not." Bobby glared at him. "Frank Devereaux is a good man who had his life smashed into pieces. You won't find anyone better on a computer, he can get into everything, used to work for the government in IT security, before … he's smart, and he's cunning, but – well, he's … uh …"

"A nutcase," Rufus finished the sentence, leaning toward John. "Guy came home – oh, hey Frank, weren't sure you were gonna make it." Rufus looked up, his gaze focussed behind John.

"Took me awhile to lose the tails." Frank stood a distance away from the table, directly behind John, looking at the back of his head. "Everything okey-dokey here?"

"Frank, this is John Winchester, he's a friend of Peg's an' he's helping out on the case. He's all right."

"Oh." Frank moved slightly sideways and approached the table. "Frank Devereaux."

John turned in his chair and looked up at the man standing beside him. In his late forties, he looked like an accountant. His hair was cut short and already mostly grey, shoulders had been broad but were now rounded and he stood stiffly, his body tense, his eyes flicking this way and that behind thick black-rimmed glasses. But he was smiling, a wide, fixed smile that showed most of his teeth.

John held out his hand and stood awkwardly for a moment as Frank looked down at it, the smile still in place, then shook his head.

"Oh, sorry, I don't do that anymore." He turned to Bobby, and handed him a manila envelope. "That was not easy to get."

"Is it all here? No good if it's incomplete."

"It's everything they have. And worth every penny." Frank raised an eyebrow and his smile widened further. John sat down uneasily. He was beginning to understand the basis of Rufus' opinion.

"Thanks." Bobby slit open the end of the envelope and pulled out the pages it contained.

John looked up at Frank. "Uh, Frank, can I buy you a drink?"

Frank jumped slightly, as if he'd forgotten John was there, looking down at him, his eyes shifting between John and the room.

"Oh … yeah, sure."

John wondered if anyone had offered him a drink before. He got up and gestured to the bar. "Come and name your poison."

Frank nodded, turning to the bar but glancing over his shoulder at Bobby as he did. Bobby looked up and nodded reassuringly, then kept reading.

"Bobby said that you're an expert in computers? Information gathering?" John asked as they sat down next to the long wooden counter.

"Yeah, that's what I'm doing these days."

"So, you're not a hunter?"

"No," Frank's tone was affronted at the suggestion. "Too dangerous. I find out things, get to the things that no one else can get to, see the patterns, see the end game."

"I need your professional opinion, then." John held up two fingers as he caught Peg's eye. She nodded and bent to get two glasses from beneath the bar.

"Professional opinion?" Frank rolled the words around in his mouth. He was aware of how most of the people he met with saw him, and he couldn't exactly disagree with the overall diagnosis. But he liked the sound of that - _professional opinion_.

"Do you think that it's possible to track a demon, using information from the omens that appear when it does?"

"Of course. You'd have to know the omens, of course, and the pattern in which they appear. Then you'd have to correlate that information against those events happening normally and exclude all the times it's just a normal occurrence – like thunderstorms. Demon omens often include weather variations, but so does normal weather. You need to know which is a manifestation of an unnatural demon incursion, and which is just … weather."

John nodded. "Exactly. Could a computer do the searches? Is there enough data publicly available to be able to make a program to follow those things?"

Frank licked his lips, his eyes narrowing as his mind riffled through all he knew about the data that was available, and what was not. "Not at this time. Soon, maybe, if the government gets its act together, but not right now. Even if it was digitalised, you'd need a hacker to break into each department separately because there's not much that's really connected now." He scratched his eyebrow. "But most of the data is still publicly available. Just means you have to do the pattern-matching using your computer."

John blinked. "My computer?"

Frank tapped his temple. "The best computer. Your brain."

"Is it possible to do it manually? Without taking years?" John frowned. He knew some of the signs, had several dates now to match the total set against.

"Sure." He looked up as Peg set two glasses of Scotch in front of them, and his gaze darted suspiciously to John. "How did you know I drink Scotch?"

"That was just a guess. Most of us seem to." John offered him a rueful smile. Frank thought about it for a moment, then nodded. It was true. If not Scotch then bourbon. Or vodka. Or gin.

"Yeah, we do, don't we?" He picked up the glass and sipped at it. "Anyway, what I was saying was that if you know what you're looking for … you can request the information from any department for any year. It doesn't cost anything – yet – and you can probably verify past instances of the demon's appearance, although the government works so slowly, I doubt if you could ever get ahead of it. The demon you were looking for, I mean."

John rubbed his face. "Yeah, for the moment, I want verification. I want a pattern I can use … to track where it's been, at least. I need to find out what it's been doing before I try and get ahead of it."

"Well, that's the way I'd do it." Frank suddenly tossed the rest of his whiskey down and stood abruptly. "Thank you for the drink and it's been a pleasure but I have to go now."

John turned slightly on the stool as Frank walked quickly from the room, not even nodding to Bobby and Rufus. He shook his head. Well, despite the – eccentricity, as Geny would have called it – he'd gotten the answers he needed. He slid off the stool and picked up his glass, walking back to the table.

"Thanks for that." Rufus nodded to him. "Frank's a bit nerve-wracking to be around for more than five minutes."

Bobby looked up. "But he did get us the goods. Sit down, John."

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, Rufus shook his head. "I got nothing."

Bobby looked at John. "Anything, any ideas?"

"Sorry, nothing is exactly leaping out." John shrugged. There had been something, while he'd read the police report that Frank had brought, but it was vague, no more than a wisp of something that might have been a random association.

"Alright, it's fifteen hundred miles to Winchester. We'll leave in the mornin'. That suit you?" Bobby slid the report back into the envelope, looking at John.

"Yeah, that's fine." He looked at the files and notes. "Can I take those? Have another look tonight?"

"Sure." Bobby shuffled them together and handed the bundle to John. "We'll be leaving around six – I know you got young 'uns, so I suggest we just make our own way over there, and meet up when we get there."

John nodded. "That'll be fine."

* * *

Setting the files out across the table in the motel room, John looked at the clock and put a pot of coffee on. He sat at the table, just turning the pages over and looking through them, waiting for a connection, a pattern.

_A fifty year old man dies of a heart attack in his home. His wife is out of town. Apparently he decided to call some entertainment for the evening, but didn't get quite what he expected. _The police report had been brutal in its detail but it didn't come close to providing the why.

_A housewife is electrocuted when her … personal stimulator … malfunctions, somehow. The thing is battery operated, it shouldn't be able to electrocute anything, much less an adult human, but somehow it does._ The police report again didn't speculate on either the why or even the how.

He set the pages aside for a moment, getting up to pour himself a cup of coffee, the information he'd just read through dancing in irritating circles through his mind. Witchcraft was the only thing he could think of, but he didn't like it, didn't like the fit of it. It was a bit Twilight Zone, he thought … and froze. Something about that thought, that _Twilight Zone_ thought, snagged at him. He stood still, waiting, but whatever it was, it didn't come any clearer. Pushing aside the disappointment, he sat down again and looked at the notes, at the map, over the rim of his cup.

Something about Idaho and the Nez Perce tribe caught at his memories or knowledge as well, but again, the nature of the tenuous connection or whatever it was wouldn't come clear. He sighed, and tucked the papers together again, replacing them in the files, and glanced at his watch. It was getting late and he had a lot of driving to do tomorrow. Turning off the coffee pot and rinsing the cup, he prowled the perimeter of the room, checking the doors and windows. He opened the door to his sons' room, listening for their steady breathing. They'd be going through South Dakota and into Wyoming, then Montana. They'd like the trip, he thought as he stripped off and slid into the bed.

In his dreams, something laughed, high and long and ending in a long series of yips.

* * *

_**Winchester, Idaho.**_

John looked down at his son, seeing the big green eyes narrow, Dean's back straighten stiffly with a prickle of hostility at the young woman who stood nervously in the room.

"Dean, a word with you." He smiled uncomfortably at Maryann and put his hand on his son's back, pushing him toward to the door.

When he'd closed the door behind them, he turned and crouched next to Dean, their eyes on a level.

"I don't need a baby-sitter!" Dean huffed, looking balefully at the closed door. "I'm eight, Dad!"

"I know." John shifted a little, looking for the right words to convince the little boy that it wasn't just being looked after. "But Sam's only four. And Bobby and Rufus and me, we're hunting in this town, so I need an extra set of eyes on the ground. Maryann will take care of making meals for you guys, and looking after Sam, so that you don't have to do that. That way, if I need you to help out, you'll be able to."

His son's expression morphed from outrage to excitement instantly. "What can I do?" he asked eagerly.

"Okay, slow down champ." John straightened up, wincing inwardly at the creak in his knees. "The first thing we have to do is figure out what we're looking for. That's going to take some time." Not least because the leads in this case were completely screwy, he thought.

"I need to get together with Bobby and Rufus for a couple of hours, do some interviews. Can you help Sam to settle in, get used to Maryann and make sure the place is secure?"

Dean nodded, his thoughts racing as he mentally checked off all that required. "Yes, sir."

"Good man." John patted his shoulder and opened the door. Dean walked back in, and smiled at Maryann. She returned the smile uncertainly, glancing up at John as he walked in behind his son. He nodded once, hoping his expression conveyed to the young woman that the crisis had been averted.

"I've got to go out for a few hours, I'll be back around six," he said to her directly. "I'll ring if anything changes."

"Yes, Mr Winchester. Um … what time do you want them to have dinner?" she asked diffidently.

It was a small town and jobs of any kind weren't that easy to come by. At nineteen, Maryann was glad of the job, and anxiously hopeful she would be able to do it well enough to suit the darkly handsome man in front of her. She hadn't realised that meeting the approval of the boy would be a requirement as well, but it seemed like her employer had gotten around that problem.

"Six thirty is fine." He glanced at the kitchenette and frowned. "Uh, we don't have much here, so for tonight, just order something in." Pulling out his wallet, John handed her a couple of twenties. "I'll try and have something more organised for tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr Winchester."

John walked to Sam and picked him up, dropping a kiss on the top of the little boy's head. As he returned Sam to floor level, he turned and looked at Dean. His oldest son nodded back seriously, shoulders unconsciously squaring back.

John sighed inwardly. There had already been too many times that he'd left the boys alone, Dean in charge of maintaining their security and safety in some motel room or other, trying to be the second-in-command he knew his father needed. Geny and Valentina were not always available, nor was Jim. So far, they'd been fine, but it only took one small mistake on either's part to change that forever. And the burden it was placing on the thin shoulders of the boy watching him now was too much. He couldn't think of any other way to handle it.

* * *

"Widow first?" Rufus looked from Bobby to John. Bobby nodded.

"Yeah, if John talks to her, we can go and see the husband of the woman who … the other woman," he said uncomfortably. "There has to be more than -"

"Sexual proclivity?" Rufus offered helpfully. Bobby glared at him.

"- tying these cases together," he finished, scowling at the notes in his hand.

John nodded. "I'll meet you back here at three?"

"Should give us enough time," Bobby agreed, his feelings on interviewing a man whose wife had electrocuted herself with a sex toy plainly written over his face.

* * *

Therese Mahon was a woman obsessed. Married to a good-looking man – movie star good-looking – who loved her, made enough to allow them a few of life's luxuries, even out here, she couldn't believe that it was real. That, in fact, he wasn't cheating on her with every woman in town. The obsession had begun a year after the honeymoon. Ten years later, it might have been defined more accurately as a psychosis.

"I know he is, I just know it," she muttered to her best friend, who'd heard it all before.

"Terry, Wayne just isn't like that," Sue Keneally said, as she had a million times before. It was true. Wayne had never strayed and it wasn't for lack of trying on the part of the town's population of single women – and some of the married ones too, she'd heard. He wasn't interested. He was married. He honoured that. She knew, she'd attempted a seduction last year, knowing what his home life was like, knowing that Terry had been tightening the restrictions on him, but he still hadn't budged.

"All men are like that, Sue, don't be naïve!" Terry snapped back at her, adjusting her sunglasses. "And he is too … I know it."

He'd never made a mistake, never left a receipt or card in his suits, she'd never found any trace of makeup – lipstick or otherwise – or perfume on his clothes. It didn't constitute proof that he wasn't, she thought irrationally, only that he was smarter than other men, more skilled in deception.

She had spent nine years searching, but like those who believed in unidentified flying objects, a little thing like lack of evidence wasn't about to dissuade her from her beliefs. She'd known at the church that she would have to watch him. She'd watched her bridesmaids spend the entire service staring at him, gloriously beautiful in the grey morning suit. She'd known on their honeymoon, when she'd found a note from the waitress on their drinks bill. Wayne hadn't picked it up or hidden it; he'd left it on the table. But she'd known anyway.

Nine years, she thought, chewing on her lip. Nine years of trying to catch him at it. She'd never once thought past that moment, the moment of triumph when all her fears and doubts would prove to be justified and she could let go of them, to what she would actually do about it. Nine years was too long. She was too thin, her skin and hair dry and brittle with stress. She couldn't take it any longer.

* * *

John walked along the quiet street, looking at the house numbers. Number Thirty Two was an uninspiring single storey weatherboard cottage, identical in shape and layout to the rest of the houses on the street, and in a similar state of unkemptness. The front lawn was dotted with dandelion and thistles, the flower beds filled with dead and dying plants which leaned this way and that in the hard clay soil. He walked up the cracked concrete path and into the shade of the porch, knocking on the wooden frame of the screen door.

The woman who opened the door a moment later was small and slender. She looked through the mesh of the screen at him nervously, and he pulled out his identification, holding it against the door for her to see.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs Rodney. I'm investigating the matter of your husband's death and I need to ask you a few questions."

She frowned as her gaze moved from the ID to his face. "The police have already been here, asking questions … he died of a heart attack … you don't think -"

John shook his head in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "No, this is a separate investigation to the police, ma'am. He did die of a heart attack, but there seem to some mitigating factors involved and we want to ensure that if there is any possibility of malice involved, we get to the bottom of it – as I'm sure you would want us to."

Sandra Rodney nodded slowly and unlatched the screen door, pushing it aside so that he could enter. She seemed to be in a state of confusion, John thought, taking her time to form thoughts and responses, her gaze drifting around him and past him but not at him.

"I'm very sorry to intrude on your loss, ma'am, but we do have to check every possibility."

Her sudden snort surprised him. "Don't you worry about my loss, Mr Paige," she said, her voice stronger, and with a touch of asperity. "I told the police, and I'll tell you, I'm glad that sonofabitch is dead."

John felt his eyebrows rise, his eyes widen. So much for the confusion, he thought, wondering how best to get the answers he needed from her now.

"Uh … that so?" He followed her into the parlour, a small room that held a few pieces of furniture, faded carpet and a colour scheme that reminded him of hospital waiting rooms. She gestured to the couch, and took a seat in the armchair opposite.

"What do you want to know?"

"Ah … your husband seems to have made a call the night he died to a … uh … Red Robin escort agency?" He looked down the notes he'd written in his notebook.

"That's Amy Robin's whorehouse, up on the 95. If you came in from the west you could hardly have missed it," she told him, her voice sharp with a sour bite to it. "My husband, Mr Paige, was a man with a strong sex drive. He wanted it all the time and he wasn't particular about how or where he got it."

John stared down at his notes, his discomfort escalating at her bluntness. "Right. So his relationship with you wasn't … uh … mutually … satisfying?" He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he negotiated this territory which up till now, he'd discussed with precisely one woman, his wife, and then without this depth of candour.

Sandra snorted again. "I know this isn't a topic that should be aired in public, Mr Paige, but I'm going to save you some time and embarrassment, trying to gently ask what went on in our marriage."

John looked up at her uncomfortably, wondering what was coming.

"My husband was a damned sexual bully. Nowadays, it's called rape, even in a marriage, but when I married him, it was just the husband's conjugal right. He forced himself onto me every night of the twenty three years we were together. And in ways that I won't even begin to describe to you." She looked down at her hands. There was a paler band of flesh at the base of her ring finger and John wondered how fast she'd taken that ring off once the man who'd given it to her was dead.

"I thought there was something wrong with me, for a long time. But there wasn't – there was something wrong with him. And someone up there," She glanced at the ceiling, "–thought the same apparently, because by God, he got a taste of his own medicine – at least that's what the police told me."

John sat still on the couch, his thoughts reeling at the brutal honesty of her narrative. She was right, though; Jake Rodney had certainly been dealt with in the way he'd dealt with his wife.

He gathered himself awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. "Uh … thank you for being so honest, Mrs Rodney –"

She shook her head, holding up her hands. "Don't call me that, please. I'm Sandra Connolly."

"Sorry, Ms Connolly." John flicked through the pages of his notebook. "Was there anyone you could think of who might have reason to want to harm your husband?"

The question garnered another disbelieving snort. "Plenty. He was a bully to everyone, always thought he could get his own way through intimidation. But like most bullies, he was a coward inside." She looked around the room, her expression hardening a little, as if it was the first she'd looked at it – and she was finding it lacking. "I should probably get the hell out of this place."

"Sounds like a good idea." John closed the notebook and stood. He couldn't think of anything else that would be helpful. One comment had caught at him, snagging with a sense of familiarity, but he couldn't work out why.

"I hope that life is easier from here, Ms Connolly." He looked at her, really her seeing her this time, the once pretty features faded and drawn under years of being married to a man who'd married to gain a possession, not a companion.

"Can't be worse," she said, her tone cheerful as she got to her feet. "Hope that answers all your questions."

"Yes ma'am." John walked out of the room to the front door and pushed the screen door open, walking through and closing it gently behind him. "We shouldn't need to bother you any more."

She closed the front door with a decisive clunk and disappeared back into the house, and John walked slowly down the steps to the path, looking up the street for the car.

He shook his head slightly. It had to mean something – but he couldn't figure out what.

He pulled the notebook from his jacket pocket again, flipping it open to the few notes he'd written down last night. _Twilight Zone. Idaho. Nez Perce_. Then he looked at the notes he'd just taken. _Got a taste of his own medicine_. He could almost feel a pattern there, but it was too vague still. He closed the notebook, tucking it back into the pocket and quickened his stride. Maybe Rufus and Bobby had found out something more conclusive from the other vic's husband.

* * *

Therese sat in the back booth of the bar, staring at the man opposite her. He was tall and lanky, his hairline slightly receding, wire-framed glasses magnifying green-grey eyes slightly, skin just getting to that stage in life where it wasn't as firm, wasn't as taut anymore. Almost the exact opposite of Wayne, she mused, her fingernails tapping a sharp staccato beat on her martini glass. Maybe that was why she was so attracted to him?

"God, that must be awful, all those years, knowing but never being able to prove it," the man's voice was soft and filled with concern for her, his eyes held definite interest, she could see it.

"I just don't know what I'm doing anymore," she admitted, sipping the martini, looking at him over the rim of the glass. "I was so in love with him, once. Now – I hate him for what he's done to me, taken from me."

He nodded sympathetically. "Why don't you break free? Come down to Boise with me, I'll show the set, you could watch the show – give yourself a holiday from -" He looked around the place, waving a hand languidly in the air. "- here?"

"That sounds so tempting." She sighed. She'd love to pack up and go, go away with this man for the night and get out of her life, out of her head. And if he was interested in her, in more of her? Well, she'd put up with enough from Wayne, she was entitled to her own needs, her own desires. Except that it would give him a totally free run in town while she was gone. She shuddered, tossing the rest of the drink down.

"He won't do anything tonight. I promise." The man leaned forward and picked up her hand, lying on the table, lifting it to his lips and kissing the fingertips gently. "Come with me. Have some fun."

Terry leaned forward, a deep warmth spreading from between her legs and spiralling lazily through her body. His eyes were flecked with gold and amber, she realised distractedly, warming and softening their cool depths. She felt her nipples harden as his lips brushed over her knuckles again.

* * *

"So both victims were really victims of their own -" Bobby looked down at John's notes.

"Lust – or maybe obsession?" Rufus nodded. "Doesn't really narrow it down much, though. Could be witchcraft, if there's a witch around who's playing God but there were no signs of spell craft or hex bags at either scene."

John, Bobby and Rufus sat hunched around the table in the motel room. Maryann had left, the boys were playing quietly in the other room. Dinner had been ordered, delivered and eaten, and they were no closer, really, to figuring out what was going on than they'd been in Iowa.

Bobby leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. "This is making my brain melt." He looked around and stood up, going to the TV in the corner and turning it on, wanting anything other than his restlessly circling thoughts in his head for a moment or two at least.

* * *

Therese looked around the set in amazement. It was so real-looking, she thought. The bed was made up, the flowers on the nightstands, photographs, jewellery on the dressing table – no detail forgotten. Beside her, the man slid his arm around her waist. Behind the flats and thick curtains, she could vaguely hear people moving around, talking. He'd said tonight's show would be live, the actors playing through the scene without retakes or stopping. It sounded exciting.

"Therese …" he whispered her name, making it sound exotic, seductive even. She felt a shiver ripple over her skin, a trembling inside. He turned her to him, gently, slowly, and his hands ran lightly up her sides, and cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing slowly over the nipples. She felt outside herself, as if she were watching herself, from a different place, a different view.

"Lie down." He almost lifted her to the bed, and she lay back, staring up at him.

"The show – someone will find us -," she said, trying to remember what time he'd told her the filming was due to start.

"No, no, that's tomorrow night, not tonight. We're the only ones here tonight." He lay beside her, his fingers unfastening her clothing, caressing her skin. Something wasn't right about that, she thought, struggling to think through the haze of sensation that was filling her mind, drugging her nervous system, she was only staying for one night – and he'd promised she'd see the show … her thoughts trailed away as his hands slid over her stomach and between her legs, his mouth closing over hers.

He pushed into her and she arched up under him, her head tipped back and her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

"You know, your husband was never unfaithful," he said, thrusting hard into her.

"What?"

"Wayne, sweetheart, your husband," he replied. "He never once cheated on you – stupid sap loved you."

Terry stared at him, the words incomprehensible. He filled her again, harder, deeper and she shuddered at the feel of him and then the lights came on, music playing raucously through the hidden speakers on the sound stage and the curtains were pulled back.

* * *

"Closet soap fan, Bobby?" Rufus looked at the screen.

Bobby scowled at him. "Supposed to be a live show tonight, broadcasting national; I'm just watching for the bloopers."

John was writing down a few theories when he heard Bobby's gasp, and Rufus' explosive snort of laughter. He looked up.

"Holy … crap!" Bobby stared at the screen. John turned to look, but it had gone to black, a smooth announcing that due to a problem with the transmission the broadcast would be delayed for some time.

"Wasn't that the -?" Rufus started, and Bobby nodded.

"Yeah, the mayor's wife," he said flatly, glancing at John. "We met 'em when we drove in, he was handing out flyers for re-election and she was staring daggers at every woman who came along to take one."

"Another case?" John frowned, it didn't seem to fit.

"We need to talk the mayor – now." Bobby slid off the end of the bed and stood up. He looked at John. "Stay here, me and Rufus'll go. We'll come straight back."

* * *

Wayne Foley opened the door reluctantly, looking at their ID through the gap. He sighed and removed the chain, opening it wide enough for them to come in.

"It's really not the best time," he said, rubbing his forehead absently. "I just … had a shock."

"Mr Foley, we know. That's why we need to talk to you now."

"Christ! Did everyone see that damned show?" Wayne pulled his robe more tightly around him and strode down the hall, turning into the living room. Rufus and Bobby followed him.

He was standing by the sideboard, pouring brandy into a glass from an ornate decanter. He looked up as they entered, lifting the glass. "Offer you one?"

"Uh … no, thank you sir. We're working." Bobby looked around the room. It was large and tastefully decorated, the furniture good quality, the entertainment system new. He looked at the man in front of him, privately astounded that any woman would have strayed from a husband who looked quite a lot like Redford in his prime, for someone who looked … well the way the guy did on the broadcast.

Wayne drank half the glass in a swallow and laughed suddenly. "It's too weird, she was the one who obsessed about me cheating – since we were married, probably before then even, and I never did."

He finished the glass and refilled it.

"So, Mrs Foley was worried about you?" Bobby looked at him steadily.

"Worried? She was convinced that I was fucking my way through every minute of the day, practically. It was her obsession, her raison d'etre. She even thought I cheated on her with our cleaning lady – a nice enough lady, gentlemen, but twenty years my senior and married to my high school math teacher for forty years – I mean really, come on."

Rufus glanced at Bobby. "I'd say that pretty much qualifies as an ironical payback, wouldn't you?"

Bobby nodded. Wayne looked at him in confusion.

"Payback?"

"Sorry, something else, nothing to do with this case, sir." He tucked his notebook away. "That's all we need, Mr Foley. I'm sorry about … well, you know, about tonight."

"Yeah." Wayne looked down into his glass. "So am I."

* * *

John let them in, and Bobby sat down at the table, staring at the notes, massaging his temples with his fingers.

"No question that it's related," he said, looking up at John. "But sex and irony and payback … nothing I know of – not even witchcraft – could organise these the way they've been done."

Rufus shrugged at John's questioning look. "I can't think of anything either. It's – grandiose. And monsters aren't, as a general rule."

"Daddy?" Sam stood at the doorway to the bedroom, a big book in his hands. "Can you read me this story?"

John glanced at Bobby and Rufus. "Sammy, it's bedtime, I'll read the story tomorrow."

Sam shook his head stubbornly. "No, you have to read it tonight."

"Sammy …" John's voice held a warning. Sam looked down at the book. Bobby looked from John to the boy and shrugged.

"Won't take long, John, we don't mind."

Sam looked up at him, a hesitant smile forming. "Please? Dad?"

"Alright, just one." He lifted Sam onto his lap and Sam opened the book to the story.

"_Coyote and Bear's Skin. One day Coyote was lying in the thick long grass by the river, bored and wondering what to do with himself when he heard Bear and Wolf walking the path a little way from him, arguing over which of them had the nicer fur._

_Bear said that his fur was thicker and longer than Wolf's, therefore he had the better coat. Wolf said that his fur was finer and prettier than Bear's, therefore he had the better coat._

_Coyote knew that both had their coats for a reason, to keep them warm in the winter. He thought he would play a trick on Bear and Wolf, and teach them to value their fur for the right reasons_…"

John read slowly, giving expression to each of the voices of the characters. As the story progressed, and Coyote, the trickster, began to really mess with Bear and Wolf's heads, he slowed down further.

On the other side of the table, Rufus and Bobby looked at each other.

"_Bear looked up at his beautiful warm skin, hanging on the frame and wept, because he was cold and miserable. Wolf also wept, cold and miserable without his warm pelt. And Coyote, he just laughed and laughed_."

John closed the book, and looked down at Sam. "Time for bed."

"It's a good story, isn't it?" Sam looked up at his father.

"Yeah, Sam, it's a good story. Now, off to bed."

Sam nodded and ran back to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. John looked at Bobby.

"Trickster?"

Bobby nodded. "I've only heard of the European ones, but of course the Native American Indian tribes all had their stories of the trickster, usually Coyote or Raven. Quite a few of those stories talk about Coyote's appetites – and I ain't talking about food." He glanced at the closed bedroom door.

"How do we find it?" Rufus looked from one to the other. "Or kill it?"

"Finding shouldn't be too hard." Bobby dragged out of his memories all that he knew of the trickster god lore. "Someone local but recently arrived, probably a regular at the local strip joint, and something all of them have in common, a sweet tooth. In a town this size, even in human guise, it'll stand out."

"As for killing it – well, Loki could supposedly be killed by a stake dipped in the blood of one of his victims and stabbed through the heart, but no one ever actually succeeded in doing that."

"In native lore, Coyote is responsible for creating the world, I don't know that we can kill him," Rufus added. "But we might be able to do something else."

"What?" John looked at him.

"Put him to sleep, for a few decades. I need to make a call." He got up and walked to the phone.

"You ever hunted a god before, Bobby?" John got up and went to the kitchenette, getting the whiskey from the counter, along with three glasses.

"Can't say as I have," Bobby said uneasily. "And if it notices us, notices what we're doing, we could be in big trouble."

John looked at the bedroom where the boys' were sleeping. "Yeah, I thought of that too."

Rufus put down the phone and sat down, picking up his glass. "Yep, there's a spell. But we have to do it fast because once we collect the ingredients, it's like an alarm bell and the damned thing will become aware of us."

Bobby snorted. "Well, if that don't just put the cherry on top."

"What do we need?" John sat down and looked at Rufus. He opened his notebook and started to read.

"Sagebrush, earth, raven's feather, coyote fur, claws and a tooth, old man's beard, milkvetch, goldenweed."

Bobby looked at him. "That it? You know where to get those, what they look like?"

"I know what the plants look like, and they'll be blooming, this time of year." John smiled. "They grow south too. I'll take the boys with me first thing in the morning. Can you get the other things?"

"Yeah, that shouldn't be too hard in a town where most people still hunt." Rufus looked down at the list. "Well, can't say I'm exactly happy about it, but it's a plan."

* * *

John, Dean and Sam walked away from the motel, out into the desert after breakfast. They were at the very tail end of Spring, and he hoped that the wildflowers would still be blooming this late. The boys were carrying bags, ready to put the cuttings into, but they'd have to find them first. Heading north-west, they climbed the small rise that hid the town from the surrounding high desert plains, feeling the sun already strong on their backs.

"Wow," Dean said softly as he looked down over the shallow valley that lay beyond. John came up beside and smiled with relief, holding Sam's hand. The valley was painted in colour, although half still lay in early morning shadow. He thought they'd be able to find all that they needed, as he picked out the soft rose of old man's beard, the vivid yellow of goldenweed, and the pink-purple flowers of matted milkvetch.

"Come on, keep your eyes on the ground, don't want to step on a snake out for the morning sun."

Sam kept hold of his hand, head bent as he kept his eyes fixed to the ground. Dean had told him about rattlers and his ears were straining too, listening for that deadly sound.

They walked through the valley, picking the flowers and putting them into the bags. John scooped up a double handful of earth and put it into the bag as well, as Dean used his penknife to carefully cut several small branches of sagebrush.

John was crouched, looking around at the plants when the shadow fell over him. He looked up at the silhouette of a man, the sun behind him. Straightening slowly, his eyes narrowed as he turned a little to look at the man without being blinded.

"Morning."

"Good morning to you," the man's voice was soft, cultured, as alien to the desert surrounding them as the immaculate suit he wore, of beige brushed silk, a long narrow violet tie delineating the crisp whiteness of the silk shirt. "Picking wildflowers?"

John shrugged. "We spend most of our time back East, it's a treat to see the high desert in bloom."

"It is indeed. A most auspicious time of year for the desert."

Sam clambered to his feet, edging behind his father and reaching for his hand. John looked down, feeling a stirring of uneasiness. Sam wasn't shy, and he wasn't afraid of people usually. He glanced at Dean, who was still packing the sagebrush into the bag and felt a frisson of fear travel down his spine.

"Dean, time to go back," he called to the boy.

"But Dad, what about -" Dean started to point to another sagebrush, and John cut him off a little more hurriedly than felt natural.

"Thought you were starving?" he tried to inject something lighter into his tone. "We haven't had breakfast yet."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and John saw his gaze shift to the stranger then back to him. He nodded.

"Yeah, I guess I forgot, I am starving." He started to walk back to them, skirting the plants and shrubs in a way that carried him further from the man watching him, as he neared his father.

"Have a nice day," John said, as Dean came up behind him. The man looked at him and smiled suddenly.

"Oh, I'll do my best." He nodded to them and turned, climbing to the top of the rise and disappearing behind it.

"Who was that?" Dean whispered. He looked at his brother's white face, Sam's small hand holding tightly to their father's.

"I don't know," John said slowly, "But he made Sam nervous, and that made me nervous. We've got everything, let's get back."

He picked Sam up, feeling the boy's trembling through the fingers that were enclosed by his own. Dean walked close beside him, and they climbed back up the hill, and into the full brightness of the morning sun, eyes half-closed as the light hit them in the face. John felt a peculiar wrenching sensation, deep in his gut, and staggered slightly.

* * *

He woke suddenly, his indrawn breath a gasp. He was lying on his side, his limbs bound tightly. He opened his eyes, his heart thudding as he realised that he was captive, and he could not see the boys.

The low tent was made from a mix of skins, stitched loosely together, brush piled thickly over it. The roof was barely sitting height. He heard the sibilant hiss of footsteps over sand, and froze, waiting.

"What an interesting little boy you are," the voice of the stranger they'd met earlier was low and edged with curiosity. "I've never met a child who was afraid of me before."

John rolled over, wincing inwardly as the ties that bound him cut into his flesh with the movement. The man was crouched next to Sam and Dean, his eyes, a yellowish-greenish-grey, shifting between them. He glanced over at John and smiled, and his teeth were no longer human, the sharp cutting incisors of a dog were flanked by longer canine teeth.

John watched him turn his attention back to Sam, reaching out with one hand, and touching the little boy on the cheek. Instantly he drew back the hand with a hiss of pain. The tips of the fingers were reddened, as if they'd been burned.

"Can't see you very well, even when I'm looking at you, can't smell you at all. Very interesting little boy," he said slowly. He tossed a length of thin cord to Dean and gestured at Sammy. "Tie up your brother, and make sure it's tight," he said to the older boy, leaning suddenly toward him. "Or I'll be eating _you_ for breakfast."

Dean fell back, shaking as he looked at the long teeth in Coyote's mouth. He picked up the rope and scuttled behind his little brother.

"Ow!" Sam yelped.

"He said to do it tight, I'm sorry!" Dean finished and crawled out again. The trickster took another length of cord and tied the eldest boy's hands behind him, and John felt rage burning in him as he saw how tightly the cord cut into Dean's skin.

"Let them go. They have nothing to do with this," he ground out, rocking against his bonds, tucking his legs behind him as he tried to sit up.

"No, they don't. But you insisted on bringing them here, making them a part of it, so this is your fault." He sat back on his haunches and looked at the leather bags in the corner of the tent. "Picking wildflowers!" The trickster laughed suddenly, a high-pitched laugh that ended in a yip. "Honestly, you people just don't get any smarter."

There was a small popping sound as the air rushed back into the space where he'd been. Dean looked cautiously around.

"Sammy, my penknife is in my front pocket. Get it and cut Dad loose."

John turned to look at his youngest, eyes widening as Sammy took his hands from behind his back, the loose ropes falling off completely.

"You pinched me!" Sam said to his brother furiously. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I had to, he said to tie you tight and I didn't want him to check," he retorted.

Blinking at his son's subterfuge, John shook his head slightly. "It worked, Dean, that's the main thing." He watched the little boy pull out his brother's clasp knife as Dean leaned back. "Cut your brother loose, Sammy."

"Dad …" Dean looked up at his father, hearing a strange tone in his voice.

"If I get free, that man will hunt us down. But he can't quite see Sam, for some reason, so you two need to get those plants to Bobby and Rufus," John told him patiently. "They can make him stop, make him go away."

Sammy hesitated in his cutting, his expression scrunching up as he looked at his father. "I'm afraid of him, Daddy. He's not good."

John looked at him, feeling his heart wrench inside his chest. "I know Sammy, but Bobby and Rufus have to have those plants so that they can stop him from hurting anyone, including us. Dean will be with you, he'll protect you."

Dean nodded quickly, hiding his discomfort as he took on the new responsibility. "You bet, Sam. We'll sneak down, and we'll hide. He won't find us."

Sammy bit his lip and sawed through the cord binding his brother, pulling it off as it loosened. Dean rubbed his wrists, flinching as the blood returned to his hands. He took the knife from Sam and looked at his father.

"I don't want to leave you here alone."

John could hear the fear underlying his voice. He nodded. "I know, but it's safer for all of us if he thinks that we're here. I don't know how he does it, but I think he can see me from far away. And if he sees me, he'll think that both of you are here as well."

He hoped that was the way it worked, anyway. The trickster had been curious about Sam. About whatever it was that hid the little boy from his sight, from being able to smell him. It wasn't much of an advantage but it was an advantage and he had to play it that way.

He looked over to the leather bags they'd collected. "Just take a few pieces of each of the flowers, Dean. And the earth. That's all they need."

Dean nodded automatically, understanding that it was an order, not a request. He transferred the flowers and branches and the earth to a single small bag, drawing it closed and tucking it into his shirt, against his chest.

"Dean, as soon as you've given Bobby and Rufus the plants and earth, take Sammy and hide somewhere, somewhere good, somewhere where that man can't find you. He can't see Sammy, and he can't smell him, so make sure that Sam is right next to you, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Dean looked around the tent, seeing a small depression to one side. "Come on, Sammy, we've got to get this stuff to Bobby."

The boys snaked out under the skin and brush covering, and John turned back on his side, wondering if he made the right choice, wondering if he should have gone with them. He didn't know – precisely – why the trickster couldn't see Sam, but he could guess. He thought they were safer together and on their own than if he'd been with them. He hoped so.

They would all die if Bobby and Rufus couldn't make the spell to send Coyote back to sleep anyway.

* * *

Dean slithered down the hill on his stomach, fending off the shrubs and bushes with his hands as he went. Behind him, Sam tried to do it the same way, but he kept getting cut and scraped by the rocks and branches, and within a short distance down the hill he was close to crying with the pain.

At the bottom, looking at the shredded shirt and grazes and cuts that covered his little brother's stomach, arms and chest, Dean's mouth compressed. He would find a way to make it better, he promised himself silently. But they had to get the stuff to Bobby and Rufus or the man would just kill them all.

Behind the motel a long drainage ditch wound around the contours of the hill, curving in next to the motel at one point before heading away again. The soils were compacted here, and heavy rains usually ran off rather than soaking in, the ditch protected the buildings from flash flooding. Dean looked at it now, thinking it would cover them very well to pretty close to the motel. He knew the room he needed. He hoped he wouldn't be leading the bad man straight to them.

Taking Sammy's hand, he ran for the edge of the ditch and jumped, dragging his brother along with him. It was wide rather than deep, even so they both landed hard at the bottom, crumpling to the ground and lying still for a moment, to catch their breath.

"Come on, we follow this until it turns left," Dean whispered in Sam's ear. He couldn't see anyone around, but whispering rather than talking just felt better, safer.

They ran, crouched low, in the ditch until Dean saw the turn become a hairpin, and he boosted Sammy out, scrambling up after him near the motel wall.

* * *

"Damned goofer dust is all over me." Bobby paced up and down the room, brushing ineffectively at his sleeves.

"Damned goofer dust is hiding our scent and our location, so show a little gratitude." Rufus sat at the table, watching his friend.

Bobby frowned as he looked at his watch. "Dammit, Rufus, they should have been here by now. It's after ten."

Rufus looked up at him, his concern filling his eyes. "I know, Bob, I know."

"If anything happened to them, god or no god, I'm gonna rip out that sucker's intestines and feed them back to him."

"Ssshh!" Rufus turned his head, listening. Bobby stopped pacing and listened as well. The scratching at the window on the rear side of the motel was very faint. They both located it at the same time, Bobby striding over as Rufus leapt out of his chair and ran.

Outside, the two boys looked up at them, and Rufus slid the window open, grabbing Sam under the arms as Bobby picked up Dean and swung him over the sill.

"Where's your Dad?"

Dean shook his head. "Caught. Coyote knows about us." He shoved his shirt up and pulled out the leather bag, thrusting it into Bobby's hands. "You gotta do the spell, make him disappear or he's going to kill Dad – us too."

"Okay, son, good job, calm down. We got it from here." Rufus took the bag and opened it at the table, stripping the flowers down quickly into an earthenware bowl.

Dean grabbed Sam and pushed him to the window. "No, we gotta hide. We can't stay here."

Before Bobby could take a step, Dean had lifted Sam to the sill and climbed up after him. The boys dropped to the concrete path outside and ran for the corner of the building.

"Balls!" Bobby leaned out of the window, trying to see where they'd gone. "Rufus -"

"Not now, Bobby." Rufus put the earth into the bowl and began the incantation, his voice thickening and deepening as he spoke the words slowly.

* * *

Coyote prowled around the motel. He'd tracked the room of the man and his sons easily, having their scent. There had been two other scents in that room, men's scents, and they were somewhere around here but he couldn't pinpoint the location.

His head lifted suddenly as another scent came on the light breeze to his sensitive nose. The older boy! Here!

He started to walk fast along the concrete path, turning his head slightly this way and that to get more information. They'd been here, right here, both of them, he was sure of it, though he couldn't smell or see the younger one at all. He glanced down at the grey dusty ground where the ditch curved in toward the motel and saw the tracks, the heavier imprint of the older boy, and the light tread of the younger. A sudden strong blast of the older boy's scent filled his nostrils and he whirled away from the motel, missing the direction of the tracks, and the scent that clung to the window, almost running toward the utility shed in front of him.

* * *

Dean wriggled under the boiler first, feeling the throb of the machinery through the concrete floor under him. He watched as Sam slid in behind him, inching his way closer, until they lay face to face under the tank, on their sides. Dean hoped that Sam's invisibility to Coyote would be enough to protect them both. They lay in darkness, the massive tank and pumps above throwing a deep shadow over them, even when the door was open. If they kept very still, and if he couldn't see Sam … he thought they would be safe.

The door slammed open and he felt Sammy start to shiver. He put his arms around his little brother, holding him tightly, eyes squeezed shut. Shadow flickered and jumped behind his lids as Coyote stalked back and forth in front of the open door, blocking the light with each pass.

"I know you're here," the trickster whispered, his voice rising and falling against the low rumble of the machinery. "I can feel you, boy."

Dean pulled Sammy closer, feeling the little boy's tears soak into the collar of his shirt as he tried to bury his face deeper against his neck. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move a muscle as he listened to the man's voice, now nearer, now further away, becoming a little more strident with each pass in front of them.

The light filled everything, brilliant through his screwed shut eyelids, a burst of golden grey that lit up the entire room, even the space under the machines. It vanished a second later, with a strange popping sound and a faint gust as if a draught had gotten into the room.

Dean opened an eye cautiously. The door was still open but no one was there. He waited, aware that grownups could try and trick little kids by hiding outside, behind the wall, waiting to pounce if the kids got too impatient and ran out before they were absolutely sure. He counted seconds, _one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus_ … when he reached three hundred hippopotamuses, he stopped.

"I think they did it, Sam," he breathed against Sammy's ear. His little brother opened his eyes cautiously, blinking against the stickiness of his lashes.

"It's gone?"

"I think so." Dean eased his arms from around Sam. "Wriggle out, Sammy; I want to take a look."

"DEAN!" Bobby's voice sounded hoarse, distant.

"SAM!" Rufus' voice bellowed, much closer, maybe just outside the shed.

The boys looked at each other. Sam wriggled out as fast as he could, Dean eeling along behind him.

"We're here!" Sam rolled clear of the tank and scrambled to his feet, running out. Rufus turned toward the door, saw them and yelled to Bobby.

"We have to find Dad, he's tied up," Dean panted, wiping the dust from his face as he pointed up the hill behind the motel.

"Okay, son, don't worry, go back to the room with Rufus, and I'll find your daddy," Bobby said, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"No!" Dean shook his head vehemently. "You can't see this tent from the outside; you have to know where it is." He stopped, a little shocked by his outburst, but it was true. He had to go and find his Dad himself. He looked at Rufus.

"Take Sammy back to the room. I have to go up there. I know where it is."

Rufus' mouth tucked in at the corners as he hid the smile that was growing, looking over Dean's head at his friend.

"I like this kid." He looked back down at Dean. "Okay, I'll take Sam; you go find your Dad."

Bobby sighed as Dean turned and began to run up the hill, starting to jog after him.

He was right. Bobby hated to admit it, but the kid had been right. The low tent looked like a clump of sagebrush and rabbitbrush, even when you got right next to it. He'd never have found John on his own. Dean wriggled back through the small depression and Bobby heard his cry inside; a second later, he heard John's deep voice. He walked around the outside of the tent, examining every inch of it, until he found it – the hide flap that concealed the entrance. He lifted it and crouched down. Inside, John held Dean tightly, the boy's arms wrapped around his neck. His wrists looked raw, the cords had cut in very deeply but he was smiling.

* * *

"You got the bravest kids I've ever seen, John." Bobby looked at him over the rim of his glass.

"I'll second that." Rufus tipped another inch into his glass and screwed the cap back on the bottle.

John smiled. "I know." His smile faded slightly. "I'd like it better if they didn't have to be so brave, though."

Bobby nodded, his expression somewhere between strained and determined as he pushed the brim of the cap back and looked steadily at him.

"You need a place for them, if you gotta be somewhere or you're doing something that you don't want them into – I'd be happy to have them with me."

John looked up, surprised at the gruff offer. He could see it hadn't been lightly made, and from the swiftly-hidden searching look Turner had given his partner, it wasn't something that he'd expected either.

"Thanks."

Rufus shuddered delicately. "Don't send them to me. Wife would have a fit."

John grinned and lifted his glass, tipping it up and swallowing the warming whiskey as he looked from one man to the other. "So, gods, now –"

Bobby's mouth twisted up derisively. "More like demi-gods," he corrected sourly.

"Low-rank gods," Rufus added. "But yeah, it's the variety that keeps us interested, right Singer?"

Bobby snorted and lifted his glass in response.

Watching them, John realised that for the first time since Deke had been killed, he felt as if he was finally beginning to find a place to fit in this life. Werewolves, shapeshifters, ghosts, gods … the patterns were getting clearer. He hadn't told these men about Mary yet. Or Azazel. But he knew he would, by and by. He knew they had stories to tell too, like Jim. Like Daniel.

It made them different, their stories. Different from everyone else. Not worse, not better … just different.


	7. Chapter 7 Baseballs and Goblins

**Chapter 7 Baseballs and Goblins**

* * *

_Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives._

_~ Richard Bach_

* * *

_**1988. Spirit Lake, Iowa. **_

John spread the sheets out along the long table in the closed-in sunroom at the side of the house. Each sheet represented a year of data; and he could see clearly the years where the data had fluctuated, well beyond the normal parameters. He stretched the graph paper on the board and plotted out the correlations, discarding those that were too vague for accuracy. On one wall of the sunroom, a corkboard was covered by a large map of the US, strings going from towns to case reports over the same time period.

The meteorological data was national, covering systems, aberrations, and overlaid by transparent sheets showing the averages over the same time period. Again, the anomalies stood out, and he pulled out the state by state data sheets, starting with 1960 in Washington state, and working through them west to east, then year by year. Separate piles on the desk at the end of the room held national agricultural results, geological analyses, crime and death reports.

He looked up when it was too dark to read the small numbers and realised that he'd been working on the data all day. His eyes were sore and itchy, and his head was pounding, but looking at the graph, even now he could see where the yellow-eyed bastard had been, Frank had been right about that – and soon, one day soon, he would know where he was heading.

Flipping on the light switch, he laid the dust cloth over the top of the long table. He would need a computer before too much longer, he realised. Although the plotting and graphing were easy enough to do manually, statistical evaluation and correlation would be another matter. A computer, even a very basic one, would do the calculations that would take him hours, in microseconds.

He opened the door that led from the sunroom into the living room, surprised to find that the room was dark as well. Moving more quickly, he flicked on the lights as he went from room to room in the small house he'd rented for the autumn and winter. The boys weren't downstairs at all. He headed up the stairs at a run, hitting the bedroom door with his shoulder as he wrenched the knob.

Dean and Sammy looked up at the entrance, frozen in what they were doing. Dean held the pieces of a clock, and a screwdriver. Sam was most of the way through his book.

"Sorry." John took a deep breath, letting the fear subside. "It's past six o'clock, you boys forget about dinner?"

"We thought you didn't want to be disturbed." Dean looked down at the collection of springs and wheels and gears in his hands.

"Is it dinner time?" Sammy asked.

* * *

"Geny, I can hardly hear you." John stood in the living room with the phone handset pressed hard against his ear. "Where?"

Dean looked at Sammy. Phone calls like these usually presaged a change of location, and he wondered if they'd be going with Dad, or left with someone else. Sam was reading, oblivious to the call. He'd started school this year and his teachers had been impressed by his aptitude to everything.

"Alright." John looked down at his sons and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm leaving now." He put the handset down and looked at Dean.

"Geny needs some help with something. I've got to go for a couple of weeks." He picked up the phone again, and dialled the number, holding the handset against his ear, listening to it ring.

"Bobby? It's John." He took a deep breath. "Going to take you up on your offer."

* * *

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota.**_

In all, it had taken them an hour to pack everything they needed for a couple of weeks, and another hour to drive to Sioux Falls. Dean stood next to Bobby and watched his father backing out of the narrow laneway, turning the car carefully, then drive out of the yard. He felt his breath go out of him.

Bobby looked down at the unhappy faces of the two boys, a trickle of unease making him shiver. What the hell had he been thinking, offering to take the boys? What did he know about kids? He'd made a decision, long ago, not to have his own, a decision that had cost him everything he'd held dear – and here he was, with complete charge over a five-year old and a nine-year old. He shook his head slightly.

"Well, it's almost lunch time, you two have a preference?"

Dean looked up at him, and shook his head. Any other time and an invitation like that would have been too easy. But he didn't feel hungry, just worried. About Dad. Sammy turned away and walked up the steps to the front door, going inside without saying a word. Bobby looked after him, the uneasiness slowly turning to nervousness. What was he supposed to do?

Dean watched his little brother go as well, and looked at Bobby's face – he could see concern and worry on it.

"Don't worry about him, Bobby. He's always like that when Dad goes." He shrugged. Sammy had just begun to start taking an interest in what Dad did, where he went, where Mom was and what had happened to their family. It was a pain in the butt answering, or rather, refusing to answer the little pest's questions. Sooner or later he'd get mad because Sam never took 'no' for an answer.

"Well, that's understandable, I guess." Bobby turned to the house. "It's not an easy life, for your Dad or for you guys."

"Yeah." Dean followed him as he walked up the steps. "It'd be nice to stay in one place, for a little while."

"What do you boys like to do?" Bobby closed the front door behind them, and walked down to the kitchen. He figured sandwiches might be a good start.

"Uh … lots of stuff. Dad's been teaching me to shoot, a bit. And I can field-strip the guns in eight minutes now."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Well, that's handy and useful an' all, but what about fun?"

"That is fun," Dean said, looking up at him. "We've been practising in the woods behind the house, hiding from each other and walking silently and stuff."

"Well, grouse season starts in a couple of days. Do you want to go bird hunting?"

"Yeah! That'd be great." He sat down at the table while Bobby went to the counter, pulling out a loaf of bread, butter, cheese and ham.

"Like cheese and ham sandwiches?" He looked over his shoulder at the boy. Dean nodded.

"What about Sam?"

"He likes cheese and pickle."

Okay, then, Bobby thought, making up a half dozen sandwiches of both kinds. Always plenty of pickle here.

"What about baseball or football?" he asked, picking up the plate and carrying it to the table.

"Well, I sort of started at some of the schools, but it got hard to practice and different schools like different sports, so I haven't really done much."

"We could throw some around, if you want." Bobby sat down and picked up a sandwich, biting into it. Dean reached out and picked up one too, and Bobby had to hide a smile as he noticed Dean mirroring himself on the other side of the table, taking big bites with his elbows on the table.

"That'd be alright," Dean managed to get out, between bites. "I could, uh, help you with fixing the cars, if you wanted."

Bobby looked up, recognising the plea thinly disguised as an offer, and grinned at him.

"I can always use a hand with the cars." He took another bite. "You any good with cars?"

"I could learn." Dean stopped chewing, tucking the bite into his cheek as he looked at Bobby. "You could teach me."

"I guess I could."

They finished their sandwiches in companionable silence, and Bobby felt himself starting to relax. Maybe it wouldn't be too hard.

* * *

Sammy had gone up to their bedroom, and was sitting on his bed, alternatively building things with the Lego blocks and then drawing them in his sketch pad, when Dean brought a sandwich up for him.

"Sam, it doesn't matter how bad you feel about Dad, it's pretty lame to be rude to Bobby when he's looking after us."

The little boy nodded, his chin tucked against his chest. "I know. I just thought we were going to be in the house for a while."

"Me too." Dean shrugged, putting the plate on the nightstand and sitting on the end of the bed. "And we will, when Dad gets back. But in the meantime, Bobby's a pretty cool guy and he made it easy for Dad to help out Geny, so we have to pull our weight around here, help out where we can."

"Okay."

"Eat your lunch, and bring your plate down when you're done," Dean told him, a warning in his voice as he got to his feet. Sam nodded again, frowning at the side of the Lego building, noticing a shadow that lay like a triangle down the side. He looked at his drawing and added it quickly.

* * *

Dean and Bobby stood in the rough grassy field to one side of the yard. Bobby held the football in both hands, the red pigskin roughly cleaned of several years of dust and cobwebs.

"So, because of the shape, you gotta give it a little spin when you throw it, so it'll go straight – like a bullet coming out of a rifle." Bobby demonstrated, throwing the ball to Dean.

"Bullets spin when they come out of the barrel?" Dean caught the ball, and looked at him.

"Sure, inside the barrel there are grooves cut, like little hills and valleys, which make it spin when it's pushed through by the charge." Bobby clapped his hands impatiently. "C'mon, throw it back."

Dean threw it back as hard as he could, ducking his head to hide the fast smile when he heard the smack of the leather hit Bobby's hands.

"Yeah, ha ha … okay, you got a good arm like that, move back about ten yards."

They spent an hour throwing the ball back and forth across the field, moving further apart, then practising throwing it straight while they were moving – or at least Dean had to move, Bobby claimed that he'd break an ankle if he ran around in the field. Sammy watched from the bonnet of one of the junkers for a while, then slid off, wandering down one alley of cars and up another, looking at all the different vehicles Bobby Singer had in his yard. A few would make pretty good cubby houses, he thought, especially the little caravan that was tucked under half a dozen other cars. He could just see a part of it, from the edge of the piled line. He'd have to climb over the cars if he wanted to get closer.

Without any further thought, he climbed over the trunk of the nearest car, and slithered and scrambled his way over, under and through the balanced, rusty bodies of the cars in between, sliding off the roof of the last one to land in front of the van door. He looked back, and realised that he was completely hidden here, he could spend all day in here and no one would know where he was. It was a strange thought, both exciting and revolting, the idea of being hidden, warring with the realisation that his brother and Uncle Bobby would be very worried about him if he ever did such a thing.

He reached out for the door and eased it open, peering inside. The van was only quite small, set up for someone on their own, or maybe a couple, to travel around in. There was a tiny kitchenette at one end, and a bed at the other, and a small area with a long couch and a drop down table for eating, in the middle. It smelled a little musty, but fresh enough. No rain had penetrated and the fabric of the mattress and the couch weren't mouldy or damp.

Stepping up and inside, Sam half-closed the door behind him, and felt a tremor of doubt hit as he realised how dim it was in there with the door nearly shut. The windows were caked in grime, both inside and outside, letting in very little light. The musty smell had gotten a little stronger, and he could smell something else, something he didn't recognise, a strange bitter smell, almost like oranges that had just become too soft to eat.

He looked around, opening the cupboards in the kitchenette, lifting the seat of the couch, looking under the bed but he couldn't find the source of the smell in the van. Maybe it wasn't in the van, he thought. A rustle behind him made him jump and he spun around, expecting to see … something, something he didn't want to see. But there was nothing beside or on or under the bed, and the little wardrobe and set of drawers were shut tight and too small to hold a real monster.

Leaning over the couch, he wound open the windows there, moving to the windows on the other side to do the same. Maybe that would help.

He lifted his head as he heard a distant call. Dean. He looked around again, and slipped out, closing the door firmly behind him. It would be his place.

* * *

"Bobby, can you read me a bedtime story?" Sam looked up at Bobby pleadingly. Dean turned around, his expression a mixture of surprise and hurt. He read the stories to Sammy at night, sometimes Dad.

"Sure, Sam." Bobby looked around the room. "Ya got a favourite?"

"I found this. Downstairs." Sam lifted the book from beneath his pillow, holding it out. Bobby took the book and ran his hand over the cover. He hadn't seen this in a long time. He opened the cover and looked down at the inscription on the first page, feeling his throat close up and tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

It had been Karen's and she'd kept it. To read to their children, she'd told him, on the fall evening she'd decided to bring up the subject. He could still see her face, the shock in her eyes, when he'd told her. He wished he couldn't. He touched the inscription lightly, and turned the page.

"_Dutch Fairy Tales for Young Folks,_" he read the title page slowly, swallowing as he pushed the memory and the pain and the grief away, forcing himself to concentrate on the pages, on the words.

Sam settled back against the pillow, snuggling down under the covers as he closed his eyes. Bobby glanced at him, and the shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He felt his chest lighten a little as he began the first story.

When he finished the first tale, he looked up. Sam was asleep, long lashes feathered against the curve of his cheek. He glanced at Dean, and his smile got wider. Dean had curled up to listen too, and like his little brother, was asleep, curled under the quilts.

Bobby stood up carefully and leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp. He backed out of the room, standing by the door for a minute, watching them. He'd had no idea of what it would be like, the way they looked at him, listened to him, their eyes wide and trusting. _I'm so sorry, Karen. I didn't know. I just didn't want to be like … him_.

* * *

The kitchen was filled with the very pale wash of morning sunlight when Bobby walked into it. Looking around, he realised he was seeing it differently now. It was no longer just a place to cook something to eat, distractedly, burning the pans and making do, leaving the dust and grime until he ran out of dishes and had to clean them all, the dresser and table and chairs covered in books and notes and junk mail tossed there and forgotten.

Maybe he was seeing it as she had seen it, as the heart of the home, he thought vaguely, his expression unconsciously screwed up as he cleared the surfaces and collected and stacked every dish and glass and cup on the counter, filling the sink and adding detergent and washing until they were all clean, stacked on the drainer, sparkling. The table was wiped clean and a fresh cloth spread over it. The counters were polished and empty.

He looked around, shaking his head slightly as he put the coffee pot on the stove. It didn't look the way she'd kept, but it wasn't that bad.

Going to the fridge, he pulled out bacon, eggs, milk, butter. He could hear soft thuds from upstairs, reliable indicators that his guests were up and would be downstairs in a few minutes. The bacon went under the broiler and the eggs were scrambled into the pan, and when Dean and Sam emerged, dressed but still yawning, he gestured to the table, and set their plates in front of them.

"Dean, you still want to help me pull apart an engine?" Bobby asked diffidently, sipping his coffee, his face half-shadowed by the cap he wore everywhere – well, almost everywhere.

"Yes, sir." Dean looked up, excitement filling his eyes.

"What about you, Sammy? Interested in seeing how a car engine is built?"

Sam looked down at his plate for a moment. He wasn't, really. "Uh … no. Not really."

Bobby laughed. "Fair enough. What do you want to do today, Sam?"

"Can I … uh," Sam thought hard about asking for permission to play in the yard. If Bobby said no, then he would be really disobeying an order if he did. But if he didn't ask, then he wasn't. "Uh … just read and draw for a while?"

"Sure, you know how to read already?" Bobby's eyebrows lifted. "Thought you just started school this fall?"

"Sammy's really smart, Bobby. He could read at four and a half," Dean told him, his pride in his little brother bursting in his voice.

"Four and a half? That so?" Bobby nodded. "Well, you must be pretty smart, Sam. Who taught you to read?"

"Dean," Sammy said, smiling guilelessly at him.

"I guess Dean's not dumb either then?"

"No, sir." Sam looked at his brother, who was looking down at his plate.

"Dad did all the hard stuff, Sammy, I just helped you practice," Dean mumbled to his breakfast. Bobby looked at the boy thoughtfully. He would crow about some of his achievements till the cows came home, he thought, but not others. He wondered why.

"All right. Let's get the dishes cleared away and then me and Dean'll go and fix a car, and you can keep an eye on things here, Sam – sound like a plan?"

The boys nodded and picked up their plates, taking them to the sink. Dean ran the hot water over them, adding detergent while Sam found a small step ladder so that he could reach into the sink to rinse as his brother washed. Bobby watched, half-amused, half-astonished, as they fell into their jobs automatically, no bickering, just getting on with it. They weren't going to be much trouble; he'd have to remember to tell John.

* * *

In the shade of the big workshop, Bobby walked around the car that was ready for surgery, gesturing at the open engine bay. "Right, now this engine needs a total rebuild, so we're going to have to take it out of the car."

Dean looked up at the chain haul suspended from the iron rafters above them. Bobby followed his gaze and nodded. "Yep, going to use that to lift it and move it over there." He pointed to the low table a few feet away. "But first we have to unbolt it from the mounting beds, and disconnect all the bits and pieces that are attached to the car."

He looked over to the workbench. "Get me the socket set, on the bench."

Dean slid off the low stool and walked to the bench, picking up the metal box that held the set and carrying it back to the car. It was a full set and a heavy sonofabitch and Bobby couldn't hide his smile of admiration at the boy's enthusiasm and ability.

"We need a nine-sixteenths socket for the engine mount bolts. Might be bigger or smaller, but we'll start with that 'cos they're often that size."

Dean looked carefully at the socket heads, their sizes engraved on their sides, until he found the right one. He picked up the handle and fitted the head onto it, spinning it once to make sure it was moving in the right direction, then handed it to Bobby.

"Good job. Right, for this bit we're going to spend a bit of time under the car, and leaning all over the top, so let's get ourselves organised and figure out what we need to hand to get on with the job. We gotta disconnect a whole lot of things before we can lift it out, and we'll go through 'em one by one, okay?"

Dean nodded, his eyes alight with curiosity and excitement. He'd helped his father a few times now, working on the Impala, but this … this was the real stuff, taking a whole engine to pieces and fixing it and then putting it back together. He felt his heart racing at the prospect of it.

Bobby looked at his face, seeing the familiar car-fanaticism that had shone in his very own when he'd been not much older. There were some people who just were that way inclined, he thought. Who needed to know how things worked. And how to fix them. And how to make 'em work better. He looked at Dean's eyes, and would have bet an even grand right there that this kid was one of them.

* * *

Sam waited until Bobby and his brother had left the house then hurried upstairs. Their bedroom was clean and tidy, containing the necessities for guests but not much more. But the room next to theirs was a different matter. He'd looked in there yesterday, opening the wrong door by mistake, and had found a room filled with furniture, boxes, old trunks and cases, books, linen, piled higgedly-piggedly together, filling the floor from wall to wall. He opened the door quietly now and slipped through, and began to look through the contents for what he needed to make the van comfortable and cosy.

He staggered downstairs a half hour later with his arms full of blankets, cushions and books. In the kitchen he took a box of candles and a book of matches, some apples, a packet of cookies, a glass, and a bottle of milk. He stacked it all on the kitchen table and decided to make himself a couple of sandwiches, just in case he felt a bit hungry later.

Between the food and everything else, he was going to have to make a few trips, he thought with a flash of disappointment. Getting over and through the cars needed at least one free hand, he remembered.

He could hear Bobby and his brother working on the car in the cover of the shed as he slipped out with the first lot of things. He was going in the opposite direction, so unless one of them had a reason to come out, he didn't think they'd see him. He couldn't come up with any explanation of what he was doing anyway.

It didn't take as long as he'd thought it would, and he opened the van door, and lugged the stuff inside, piece by piece. He spread the blankets out on the bed and one for the couch, put the cushions on both, set the food on the counter in the kitchenette. He'd just decided to have a glass of milk and a sandwich, when he noticed the windows. They were shut.

Sam looked at them for a long time. Maybe he'd shut them again before he'd left? He couldn't remember doing that. He looked around the van slowly again. It was empty. Not even a spider was inside.

He opened the waxed paper that held his sandwich, and carefully opened the bottle of milk, setting aside the little foil cap as he poured the milk into his glass, then replacing it. He wasn't sure if he should be feeling worried or not. Maybe Bobby had noticed that the windows had been left open and had come and closed them himself?

"Sam?"

At the familiar shout, he turned to the door, squeezing out and scrambling back through the junkers to the alleyway as he heard his brother calling out again. Running down the alley to the workshop, he was relieved to see that Dean and Bobby were both still inside.

"What's wrong?" he panted as he came into shadowy shed.

"Uh, nothing." Dean frowned at his brother. "Can you get us a couple of sodas from the kitchen?"

Sam looked at him, then remembered he was supposed to be playing in the house. He nodded, and ran to the kitchen, grabbing the cans and tucking them against one arm, then walked back to the shed.

"Thanks Sam," Bobby's voice came from under the car. "Dean, can you get the adjustable wrench and pass it to me?"

Dean took the sodas from his little brother as he walked to the bench, and Sam watched them for a moment longer before turning away and hurrying back to the van.

When he got back inside, he went straight to the counter and stopped. The glass was empty. The sandwich, which he _knew_ he'd left beside it, was gone.

"Okay. Come out." He looked around the empty space, feeling a cold spot move up the back of his neck. "I know you're here, just come out."

His eye was caught by a sparkle in the corner, over the couch. The sparkle thickened as the light picked up more substance underneath, turning greenish, becoming lumpy.

Sam stared at the small creature crouching on the corner of the couch, his mouth opening a little in amazement. He was sure Bobby didn't know about this.

"What are you doing here?" He looked down at the misshapen form, long arms and short legs, a round stomach protruding between them, wrinkled, bumpy skin, large bluebell-blue eyes peering at him from either side of a long very pointed nose. The ears captivated him the most; they were long and pointed as well, standing out from the skull like a bat's. The goblin looked back at him.

"I needed a place to stay, of course." It lifted its arm and turned slightly, and Sam could see a deep cut, along the back of the arm, from shoulder to elbow, the edges torn, greenish blood dripping out. He leaned closer, frowning.

"You should really bandage that. My Dad says that open wounds are dangerous."

"Got anything to fix it with?" the goblin asked sharply, twisting his head and arm to look at the cut.

Sam remembered seeing the first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. "In the house," he told the little monster. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

"As if I have anywhere else to go," the goblin muttered. Sam stopped by the door.

"If you're still hungry, you could have the other sandwich – and some cookies." He gestured to the kitchenette. The goblin looked over to the food longingly but didn't move. Sammy frowned at it then walked to the couch, letting down the drop-leaf table down and returning to the counter to grab the food and bottle of milk. "Can't you move?"

The goblin looked up at him as its long fingers swiped a cookie and stuffed it into its mouth, crumbs scattering as the cookie was devoured.

Sammy looked at it disapprovingly. You were supposed to chew food with your mouth closed. "I won't be long."

* * *

Sitting on the couch next to the goblin ten minutes later, his lip caught between his teeth as he looked at the long, nasty cut on the creature's arm, Sammy remembered what his Dad had taught him and Dean a couple of months ago about field dressings. The wound had to be clean, that was the most important thing, any dirt in it would mean an infection.

Bobby's kit contained a small bottle of clear alcohol and he picked it up, unscrewing the lid as he looked at the open wound. There were grains of dirt in there, he could see, and threads of what might have been cloth trapped as well. Alcohol sterilises wounds, he could hear his father's voice in his memory. That means it kills all the things that might cause the wound to get infected.

"Hold your arm out, I have to use this to clean it out," he instructed the goblin, who looked suspiciously at him.

"If there's dirt in there, it won't get better," he added sternly.

The goblin knew that much. The cut had begun to ache more deeply in the last day. He reluctantly extended his arm over the table. Sam tipped up the bottle and the pure alcohol trickled into the open flesh.

"ARGGHHHHHHHH!" The goblin snatched his arm away, staring in fury at the boy, tears running from its eyes down its face from the agonising pain.

"Sorry!" Sam shrank back from its expression, holding the bottle up defensively. "You want it to get better, don't you?"

"Not if the pain is going to kill me anyway!" the goblin retorted. It looked down at the cut and slowly stretched out its arm again.

Sammy peered into the cut again. The dirt was gone, and the threads. The strangely coloured flesh of the goblin was clean.

Putting the lid back on the bottle, he looked back into the kit and pulled out a pack of butterfly closures, his lips moving as he read the words hesitantly on the wrapping. His father had shown them the curved needles and the long suture thread but had only talked about sewing a wound shut. The closures were only tape, and he could see Bobby had needles and thread in the kit as well, but he couldn't imagine trying to stitch the cut together, his stomach giving a slow roll at the thought, and the tape would hold the edges together for a while.

Dad had said that wounds healed better if the cut was closed so that no dirt could get into it. He chewed worriedly on the edge of his lip and opened the pack, peeled the backing off the first, his fingers fumbling a little as he drew the two edges of flesh together and put the tape over it. It held and he quickly took out more, spacing them evenly as he worked down the cut. The sterile gauze pad went over them, and then he took the bandage, and wound it around the arm, remembering how his father had done it, not too tight, but just firm. He cut the end of the bandage into two strips and tied them around the arm.

"There."

The goblin looked down at the white bandage, standing out brightly against his greenish skin. It felt better, even with the after burn of the liquid, it had to admit. Flexing the arm slightly, it wriggled its fingers. The bandage didn't move.

"Thank you." It looked at the boy reluctantly, and realised that the child had no idea of what he'd done – of the debt that it owed him now.

"I'm Sam." Sam told it, putting the contents of the kit away and closing the lid.

"Hello, Sam," it said cautiously. "My name is Taswellweejullan."

Sam smiled uncertainly at it. "That's a long name."

The goblin nodded. "You can call me Tas."

"What happened?" Sam asked, pointing to the bandage.

"It's a long story." It sighed. "And a complicated one. Suffice to say that I'm cured of my curiosity about humans."

* * *

Bobby yanked at the ladder that gave access to the attic, climbing cautiously up once it was straight and solid on the floor. His flashlight beam gleamed on the things that had been stored up there so long he no longer recognised them.

"Should be with the ski gear," he mumbled as he climbed through the trap-door and stepped onto the floorboards. The days' heat filled the space, bringing a light sheen of sweat to his face as he picked his way around and over the detritus of a life he'd lost years ago.

After a few moments rummaging around in the big steamer trunk next to the two sets of cross-country skis, he found them. The leather had dried and hardened, but a good soaking in oil would fix that, he thought. He came down the ladder and folded it back, shutting the ceiling door.

Dean looked down at the gloves, taking the larger one and turning it over in his hands. They were old but well made.

"Needs oil," Bobby said shortly, walking down the stairs. "Come on."

In the kitchen, Sam looked up as Bobby gave him the second glove, turning it over his hands.

Bobby picked up a couple of old newspapers from the recycling box in the corner, spreading them over half the kitchen table. He looked in the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a bottle of neatsfoot oil, setting it on the table.

"Pour it on, and rub it into the leather, then pour some more on until the leather feels soft again. You have to work the leather slowly, or it'll crack."

The boys poured the oil carefully over the gloves, rubbing it in and working them back and forth, the leather darkening to a very deep brown as it drank in the oil, filling the warm room with the slightly off scent. Leaning back against the counter, watching them as they diligently worked the leather, Bobby felt his chest contract a little. He was no longer nervous about them, no longer worried he was going to do or say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

When the gloves started to drip, he found a couple of old balls, setting them on the table as he looked over the job the boys had done. He was satisfied that the gloves couldn't take any more oil and he showed them how to put the balls into the palms of the gloves and wrap the mitt around them, tying them into shape.

"Should be able to start using them tomorrow." He glanced up at the clock. Past nine and Dean and Sammy were yawning. Another day gone.

* * *

Tas ate everything Sam brought, and Sam changed the dressing every day. Taking the bandage off and looking at the wound, he could see it was growing together again, and the goblin had told him that it felt much better.

Watching the little boy as he set out the day's food, the creature silently debated the pros and cons of telling the human child about the blood debt – it didn't like to be beholden to anyone, but least of all this child. On the other hand, it couldn't ignore it. There were rules, and it knew the penalties of betraying a blood debt.

Bobby had read all of the fairy tale book to Sam, and Sam had a pretty good idea about the lore of goblins. Tas hadn't mentioned the debt between them, but he thought that the goblin would honour it, if it were ever needed.

* * *

Bobby and Dean had lifted out the engine and worked on it every day, finishing near sunset covered in grease and oil, as they cleaned and rebored the pistons, replacing the worn out parts one by one, Dean's mind absorbing everything he was learning, seeing how the engine fit together, seeing how it worked, seeing how it could be improved.

Bobby watched the sponge-like absorption of the knowledge with amusement, letting the boy do more and more of the work, seeing Dean's confidence get stronger and surer with every job successfully completed. He could be impulsive, acting before thinking, but not here, Bobby noticed. Dean took the time to work out the right way to do something before he started and he thought through what he needed. Mechanical work had a way of instilling that steadiness of thought, paying attention to logical progression.

* * *

The three of them walked out through the misty fields in the mornings, Dean with a .22 rifle, Bobby with his shotgun and shells filled with birdshot, Sam carrying the bag of spare ammunition. He taught them how to move quietly enough through the long grass and puddled marshes to avoid alarming the wildlife, taught them where the birds would be, and where the animals hid, taught them to find and recognise the spoor of the creatures that lived in the woods and the marshes, and where they came to drink and eat, and why.

Dean loved the quiet walks, the heavy stock of the gun smooth against his hands, the man beside him explaining the habits and behaviour of each of the animals they came across. Sam just liked the quiet of it, and learning about the animals, absorbing the information Bobby gave out with the effortless capacity of the very young.

* * *

In the late golden afternoons, they went to the field and threw the baseball to each other, learning about trajectory and force and the way the air acted on the seams of the ball, and how to throw it so that it sped fast and straight into the catcher's glove, or moved slowly and randomly through the air, or dipped and swooped, depending on the spin it was given by the pitcher. Both boys had good hand-eye coordination, Bobby thought as he watched them critically, and they were developing a real skill at making the balls do what they wanted, allowing for wind resistance and pressure, translating their learned skills to instinctive reactions with each session.

It was like rebuilding a car, in some ways. Taking the pains to make sure every piece fit together, watching carefully for any signs that something was wrong. His heart ached when he watched them, and he did his best not to acknowledge that. The past was done and gone and there was nothing he could do to ever bring it back, to make things right or different.

* * *

Bobby sat at the table, looking around the warmly lit kitchen. Sam and Dean were bent over their plates, eating as fast as he remembered himself doing when he was a kid. The room was clean, the whole house was pretty clean, he thought with a moment's surprise, clean and tidy and homey.

Aside from a single glass, after the boys had gone to bed and he returned to his study to read up on something or do some research, the whiskey bottle went untouched. Having the boys here with him had made him calmer, had steadied him in some way, he realised, rather than making him more worried. He hadn't seen that coming. The fear he'd had when he'd told his wife that her dream would never come true seemed like a terrible joke now.

The everyday stuff, cooking them dinner, making sure they ate properly, getting them into baths, doing the laundry even … had made a solid foundation, one that he kept feeling was getting thicker and more solid by the day. He enjoyed, _no, that was too tame a word for what he was feeling_, he _loved_ teaching Dean about cars and hunting, reading to Sam at the end of the day, watching over them and listening to them, and having them here in this too-big house, their voices and laughter filling the rooms, their needs demanding more of him, but at the same time, making him feel more like a man, like a worthwhile man, than he'd felt in years.

His heartache had never left, never healed properly. He would always miss her, and would always feel the guilt of the last conversation they'd had. Now, it was worse, because he was finding out what she'd already known – family was the only thing that mattered in this wide world. Love, that intangible force that made people try to be better, try to be stronger, more caring of each other, was all about family, about connection and roots and making a safe haven for the people you loved against whatever was out there in the darkness.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as the boys picked up their clean plates and carried them to the sink. _I'm so sorry Karen_.

* * *

Sam could hear the deep growling rising through his dream. He turned his head on the pillow, his legs moving restlessly, wanting to be running, running away from the growling. His eyes flew open and he sat up, chest heaving as the tendrils of the dream faded away. But the growling remained, deep and savage and unmistakably from the yard. He turned his head slowly, looking at the window and he could hear the heavy pads of the dog outside thumping on the gravel, the basso pitch rattling the panes of glass.

Sliding silently out of the bed, he walked to the window, pressing against the cold glass to look down. The sky was clear, the moon sailing high above them against the black sky, and he saw it, pacing in front of the house, a monstrous black dog. It stopped and looked up at him, red eyes glowing against the black fur, and he stumbled backwards, away from the window, his muscles seizing up with fear.

Bobby turned from side to side in his bed, his face twisted into an expression of agony, his legs caught in the tangle of sheets that had migrated to the end of the bed. He moaned softly as the dream moved toward the known climax.

_Karen stood by the bed, staring at him, her body shaking with the force of her feelings. "I can't believe you. I hate you." She dragged in a breath, "Everything's a lie. Our whole life, our vows ... everything. You knew I wanted kids. Why didn't you just sit me down and say..."_

_Bobby looked at her, his heart pounding against his ribs. Say something, his mind screamed at him, say something to fix this! Sweat was coating his hands, trickling down his back. One minute it had been a conversation, now he was looking down at the devastation and debris of the end of the world, the end of his world._

_She shook her head. "I don't understand. You're a good man. You'd be a good dad."_

_She was waiting, he knew, waiting for him to explain, to help her understand. But his throat was frozen, and the words were locked in his head, inexpressible, wrapped in fear and memory, so that he couldn't explain it, could only feel it._

_Her face screwed up as she screamed at him, "What does that even mean, you break everything you touch? What kind of excuse is that?"_

_She turned away from him, and stepped onto the broken shards of the glass. The gasp of pain as she twisted and fell onto the bed brought him a little closer to coming back to her, a little further out of his head. He took a step toward her as she lifted her foot, looking at the glass protruding from the sole. She looked up at him, and her face twisted suddenly._

"_Just stay away from me! You broke my heart, Bobby! You happy? Just go away!"_

_He felt his heart stop, felt it shatter inside him as he watched her suck in a breath, her shoulders shaking and the tears filled her eyes, spilling over and splashing down onto her arms, her lap. He watched her twist away, curling up over herself, her hands clenching on the bed covers, her pain and her grief a palpable wall around her, a wall he couldn't touch, couldn't break down or through._

The dream morphed, in the way that dreams do, into another memory, another time, and she stood before him, her eyes black from corner to corner, the demon laughing through her mouth, ripping shreds from his soul as it tossed the conversation back at him, her memory of her pain held out to him like a sacrifice, dripping with her blood and tears.

* * *

Sam huddled in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up, elbows over them, head bent into them. He could hear the thundering booms from downstairs as the dog hit the front door, again and again, the impact shaking the walls, making the pictures rattle and jump. He was shaking and he could feel a wetness in his pyjama pants as fear took hold and held him tight.

He screamed when the door exploded, and Dean sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide as he looked around, finally spotting Sam in the corner.

"What's wrong?" He scrambled from the bed, sliding as he ran for Sam, his hands touching his brother's shoulders. "Sammy, what's wrong?"

The growling was louder, inside the house, echoing from the walls and ceilings and floors. Dean's head snapped up as he heard it, turning to the bedroom door, knowing that there was nothing in the way of protection in the room, the salt was downstairs, where the creature was, he had to get Sam to someplace safe.

He stood, pulling Sam up, and pushed his brother toward the door. As he opened it, Sam pulled back and Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, half-dragging him out of the room and along the hall to Bobby's room.

"Come on, Bobby will know what to do!" he whispered hoarsely, fear thrumming through muscle and tendon as he heard the heavy breathing down the stairs.

Sam ran with him, reluctantly. He didn't think Bobby would be able to protect them from the dog, it wasn't a real dog; he understood somewhere in his heart, guns wouldn't stop it.

Dean opened the door to Bobby's room and could smell the rank scent of sweat in the close air. Bobby turned on the bed, deeply asleep, his eyes shifting rapidly beneath the closed lids. Thrusting his little brother toward the bed, he looked around the room, spotting the hessian sack of salt beside the window with a violent surge of relief. He ran and grabbed it, carrying it back to the door and tipping it up to pour a thick salt line across the threshold. He looked around, carrying the half-empty bag to the windows and pouring salt over the sills, his gaze feverishly darting around the bedroom, looking for any other possible entry point.

Sam sat on the end of the bed, curled up against himself, watching his brother moving around the room. He glanced at Bobby, wondering why he hadn't woken, why he was still sleeping through the growls and grunts, the smashing of the door, the intrusion of the boys into the room. His eyes widened slightly as he wondered if it was Bobby's dreaming that had brought the creature to the house.

Dean put down the empty sack and ran to the side of the bed, grabbing Bobby's arm and shaking him as hard as he could.

"Bobby, wake up! Wake up, we're in trouble," he panted, his fingers biting into the man's arm. "Sam, help me wake him."

Sam crawled reluctantly down the bed, and started shaking Bobby. "Bobby, wake up!"

He half expected the growling and the thudding of the paws on the timber floorboards to disappear when Bobby's eyes opened. But they didn't. That was worse, a lot worse.

"What's going on?" Bobby struggled to sit up, kicking at the sheets around his legs as consciousness returned and he saw both boys on the bed beside him. "What's wrong?"

"Something's in the house, Bobby, something bad." Dean looked at the door, then at Sam. "I put salt in front of the door and the windows but it's inside."

Bobby frowned as his senses belatedly registered the noise coming from the hallway. Dog, he thought automatically, as the growling got louder, interspersed with heavy panting, and the click of claws on the hardwood boards.

"What the hell?" He slid off the bed, going to the closet and pulling out a shotgun. He broke the gun and checked that it was loaded. The salt-packed shells were there.

"What is it? D'ja see it?" Bobby looked from Dean to Sam. Dean shook his head. Sam was looking down at the bedspread. He nodded slowly.

"It was a big, black dog," he said quietly. "It had red eyes."

Bobby frowned. Black dogs were spirits, not actual creatures. They were death omens, guardians and hunters of the souls that were at the end of their time … or, he suddenly remembered, that had been cursed to die. He felt a trickle of fear slip down his spine. Had he been cursed? It couldn't be the boys.

* * *

Taswellweejullan sat in the van, debating with itself over going to help the boy who held the blood debt, or just remaining here, out of sight. It sighed after a few moments, knowing full well it couldn't just sit here safely while the boy was in danger. It wondered momentarily about the appearance of the dog, specifically which human in the house was the target. Then it shrugged the thought off. It wasn't that important.

Opening the door to the van, the goblin slipped out, crouching in the shadows of the cars, feeling the night for anything else that might be lurking, might be waiting for it. There was nothing else abroad in the night, but it could feel the dog moving through the house, searching for the soul it had come to take.

Humans were forever meddling in things that they were better off not messing with, it thought, slipping between the car bodies and keeping to the shadows as it crept closer to the house. The dog was there on command, targeting the older human. But it could kill the two younger ones as easily if they came between it and its prey.

Looking at the destruction of the front door, it sighed and cocked its head, listening to the life within the house. The three humans were on the second floor, it could feel their fear from here. The dog was prowling the hallway, because it couldn't get to them, some barrier had been put into place, holding it back. The goblin nodded approvingly as it caught the scent of the salt, covering all the possible entrances to the room.

A curse dog was more powerful than a death apparition. They were solid, made actual in the real world. The salt was a powerful wall but not an invincible one, and sooner or later the dog would break through. Sighing vexedly again, and scuttled up the staircase, looking around the banisters as it reached the top. There it was, pacing up and down in front of the door. The goblin ducked quickly as the door opened, and the older human appeared, the double barrels of the gun crossing the line. The massive boom of the gun filled the hallway, the dog howling in pain and outrage when the salt pellets sprayed it.

Tas shook its head disbelievingly. As if that would do anything but enrage the dog!

It ran down the hallway as the dog shook itself and leapt through the open doorway, the salt peppered in its flesh now providing a key to breeching the salt line that covered the threshold. The goblin reached the doorway as the dog brought the older human down, its jaws poised above the man's throat. Waving its hand imperiously, the salt line shivered and broke in the centre, and Tas raced into the room, leaping onto the dog's back as the teeth closed.

The dog disappeared, leaving a wet pool of saliva dripping down the man's neck, and the goblin sitting on his chest. It looked up at Sam.

"Are we even now, Sam?" it asked. "The debt between us is paid?"

Sam nodded, wide-eyed.

"Good." The goblin climbed off Bobby's chest, looking around the room. "It would be better, I think, if this was forgotten. Whoever raised that curse against the man will not be able to raise another." It bent over Bobby, who was starting to struggle up and touched him on the forehead. Bobby fell back, his eyes closed, asleep.

It walked to Dean, who was sitting behind Sam, staring at the goblin with undisguised fascination and a lot of suspicion. The goblin extended a long finger and touched the older boy on the forehead and he fell sideways onto the bed, asleep.

"Will I forget all of it?" Sam asked softly.

"Not all of it. Just this part of it." The goblin looked at him. "Sometime in the future, you might have need of your memories. They'll come back to you, if that happens."

It touched Sam's forehead, and Sam toppled over onto the bed.

Taswellweejullan stared around the room and clapped three times. The man and the two boys lay on the bed, the covers pulled over them, sleeping peacefully. The salt once again filled the hessian sack beside the window, the lines gone from door and window. The gun sat loaded in the closet.

The goblin went down the stairs, checking that the claw marks from the dog had gone from the floorboards. It opened the front door, and walked through, closing and locking it behind it.

It stood in the yard and looked up at the moon. Enough interfering with humans, it thought. Time to go home.

* * *

Bobby woke at dawn, feeling strangely tired, but also somehow released and empty. He rolled onto his side, and looked down in surprise at Dean's dark head, resting on the pillow beside him. A glance over his shoulder told him Sam was sleeping on the other side, only his tousled hair showing, the rest a lump beneath the covers.

Had the boys had nightmares last night? He couldn't remember waking, couldn't remember anything after turning out the lamp and closing his eyes. He wriggled up and eased himself over the sleeping boy, looking around the room. Everything was the same as he'd seen it the night before.

Pulling on his clothes, he slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. The boys' room looked all right, he thought, peering in. Sam's bedding was a tangled mess at the foot of his bed, but other than that, there was no sign of any disturbance.

Maybe Sam had a nightmare and Dean had taken him down the hall? He'd ask them when they woke. In the meantime he was hungry, and he headed down the stairs.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room bleary-eyed. What was he doing in Bobby's room? He rolled over and saw his brother on the far side of the bed. What was Sam doing here? He couldn't remember anything after he'd snuggled into his own bed, Bobby's voice reading making him sleepy as he'd listened.

"Sam, Sammy." He reached out to shake his brother's shoulder. "Sam?"

"Wha –" Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the covers more firmly over his shoulder.

"Sam, did you have a nightmare last night?" Dean wriggled closer, shaking Sam harder.

"No." Sam opened his eyes reluctantly, then sat up as he realised he wasn't in their room, or his own bed. "Why're we in Bobby's room?"

"No clue." Dean pushed the covers back, and got off the bed. "Thought maybe you had a bad dream and wanted to be here."

"I don't remember." Sam pushed the covers back and got out as well, shivering slightly as the cool air hit his warm skin.

"Oh well, come on, let's get dressed and get some breakfast." Dean shrugged it off. They must have come in through the night, and Sam sometimes had pretty bad nightmares.

* * *

The low throbbing growl echoing through the alley of cars made both Dean and Sam's head lift suddenly. They knew that growl.

"Dad!" Dean ran out of the shed, as the Impala pulled up in front of the workshop, Sam close behind him.

John opened the door and climbed out, the skin of his face red and cracked, a little thinner than he'd been before he'd left, but otherwise whole and himself. He spread his arms and crouched down as the boys barrelled toward him, enfolding them both in a hug.

Bobby walked out of the shed slowly, grinning at John over the boys' heads as he caught sight of him. The wash of disappointment he felt was overlaid by an understanding happiness that the boys had their dad back, safe again, and he pushed his feelings aside as he saw their unalloyed joy in that.

* * *

"Pretty bad one?" Bobby poured an inch of whiskey into a glass and handed it to John. The boys were in bed, their excitement at their father's return having finally tired them out enough to ensure a good night's sleep. The men were in the living room, and John accepted the glass, stretching out against the back of the long couch, allowing himself the luxury of relaxing fully.

"Yeah, pretty bad," John agreed, sipping the whiskey. "Tsuakerag about a hundred miles from Yellowknife, attacked a mining exploration camp, just about wiped everyone out. Geny and I killed it, but it wasn't an easy job."

Bobby nodded. He'd first heard of the creatures about five years ago, working up in Canada with Rufus on a wendigo hunt. They were only present in the far north, but were vicious creatures with appetites that made a wendigo look like a cocker spaniel.

"How was it here? Boys give you any trouble?" John looked over to him. Bobby smiled and shook his head.

"Not at all. Dean helped me strip down an engine, we did a bit of bird hunting in the marshes and woods, they cleaned up after themselves – they're great kids, John. You've done a hell of a job raising them."

John smiled, closing his eyes. "Mary did all the groundwork, at least with Dean. And Dean did most of the groundwork with Sammy." His face tightened slightly as his memories brought her back to him. Bobby saw his expression change. He wondered what had happened to John's wife, what had driven the man into hunting with two small boys to look after at the same time.

As if he sensed Bobby's thoughts, John turned his head slightly, his eyes opening as he looked at the older man.

"Mary made a deal." The quiet words floated in the air between them for a long moment, Bobby's shock evident in his face. John's mouth twisted up. He still hadn't completely reconciled his feelings about the past, about what had happened, but he was living better with it now.

"She made a deal to save me." He closed his eyes. "A demon, Azazel, killed me in 1973, and offered her a deal – save my life, bring me back from the dead, in return for a visit in ten year's time. She made the deal to save me, I guess she thought she could deal with the demon when it returned." He opened his eyes, staring down into his glass. "I didn't find out till later, but she was a hunter. She thought she knew what she was doing."

He didn't see Bobby's shocked look at the name of the demon, nor the compassion that filled his eyes as he realised the devastation John must have felt on learning this about the woman he seemed to still love. John kept talking, feeling his memories and emotions rising and falling – the impossible conflict that still ate at him. Dead or alive, there had been no way to either justify her decision or blame her for it.

"If we love, there's always hostages to fortune, John," Bobby said quietly when John fell silent.

"My wife, Karen …" he stopped on her name, the familiar grief closing his throat. He took a breath, focussing on pulling the air into his lungs, pushing it out again. "She was possessed by a demon, in '78. Jim told me that a gate opened near here, that year. Must have been one of the strays."

"I didn't know what was going on, I was just a mechanic, what the hell did I know?" He topped up his glass, knowing that telling the story again was going to need some dutch courage. It never got any easier.

John listened with growing horror to Bobby's dry rendition of the events that had torn his life apart. His heart clenched as the other man described what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do, in his ignorance and his fear, seeing the woman he'd loved turn into something that had been far beyond his worst nightmares. He understood the bond between Bobby and Rufus, when Bobby told him about Rufus' appearance, his help, his knowledge and skill and his compassion for a man who'd been pushed far, far out over the edge.

He understood Bobby's need to become a hunter, and was envious of the partnership that had formed between the experienced hunter and his new protégé; he could have used that help himself in the first year; he wished every day that Deke hadn't been killed, that they were still hunting together, despite how far he'd come on his own, the friends he'd been glad to find along the way.

Bobby looked down at the bottle on the table as the thin grey light edged its way around the curtains. It was empty, perhaps understandably. They'd talked the night away, talk that had been so full of pain and grief and anger and helplessness, that it was inevitable they'd needed the help of the whiskey to keep going, to get it out.

He envied John his boys, he knew that. He would never say it to the man, he knew that too. But if it came down to it, he'd give up his life in a second for them, or their father, to protect them, to keep them as safe as was possible in the life they led. He'd given up his chance for family. He couldn't turn away from this one.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, pushing the sentimental feelings back down. He was getting too old to be pulling these all-nighters.

* * *

_It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons._

_~Johann Schiller_


	8. Chapter 8 Never Is A Long Time

**Chapter 8 Never Is A Long Time**

* * *

_My grief lies onward and my joy behind.  
~ William Shakespeare_

* * *

_**1989. Watertown, South Dakota**_

John snatched up the phone as it shrilled on the desk, frustrated at the interruption to his work.

"Yeah?" he barked, picking up another report, tilting it toward the lamp as he tried to read it.

"John? It's Jim."

The tone in Jim's voice instantly got John's attention. The report fell back to the table as his fingers opened involuntarily.

"Jim, what's wrong?"

"It's Valentina," the priest said quietly, "John, I'm sorry; she was killed tonight, on a hunt with Geny."

John closed his eyes, feeling his chest tighten with a disbelieving but fast-growing grief. "No, Jim. How?"

"I don't know all the details. Geny called."

Jim hesitated as he tried to suppress his own sorrow. Valentina had been an extraordinary woman, and he was going to miss her, but his fear for her husband was overriding that right now. "He sounded terrible, John, I'm worried about him. He just said that they'd been hunting a ghost, and it had gone after her."

"Where is he?" There was no question in John's mind but that he needed to find Geny, help get him past the initial stages of fury and agony. He knew well how easy it was to make mistakes when grief first set its claws into the soul.

"Cedar Rapids. Do you want to bring the boys here?" Jim asked. John thought about it. It would be better.

"Yeah, if it's alright with you," he said, already calculating the distances, what he needed, what they'd need.

"Of course," Jim said briskly. "See in you a couple of hours?"

John glanced at his watch. "Yeah, we'll be there then."

He put the handset down, and sank into the chair beside the table for a moment.

_Valentina_.

Practical, pragmatic, compassionate, intelligent, humorous, articulate, warm, protective and welcoming to his sons whenever they had needed her. He couldn't believe she was gone, couldn't accept it. And as he dragged his thoughts from himself and thought of Geny, if he couldn't, how on earth could Geny?

He stood abruptly, and walked into the living room. Dean and Sam sat on the couch in the semi-darkness, the flickering light of the television illuminating the room and their faces in intermittent flashes.

"Dean, Sam." He looked at them, and they looked back, their attention instant. "Something bad has happened. Valentina was killed. I have to go and find Geny, help him, so you're going to stay with Jim for a few days."

Dean nodded at once, jumping off the couch and turning off the TV, heading for his bedroom. Sam sat still, looking up his father.

"What happened?" His voice was small and uncertain and John felt his sorrow rising again, in the pain that he could see in his young son. He walked to the couch and crouched down in front of Sam.

"It was an accident, Sam. Just bad luck. Sometimes things just happen like that, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"It could happen to you?" Sam looked at him, eyes widening in shock, and John swore at himself for putting that thought into his head, as if the boys didn't have enough things to worry about.

"No. No, no. Nothing's going to happen to me." He forced a smile to his mouth, his hand reaching to smooth Sam's hair. "Go and get a bag packed, Sam, we need to go as soon as we can."

* * *

_**Cedar Rapids, Iowa.**_

John drove south from Blue Earth, taking the 169 into Iowa and following it until he hit the 20, just past Fort Dodge. He stopped for coffee and gas, then headed east, checking off the towns along the way, driving steadily through the darkness. At Waterloo he took the onramp onto the interstate and less than an hour later he was driving through the outer suburbs of Cedar Rapids, looking for street numbers on the quiet, dark streets.

Geny's truck was parked in a driveway of a plain one-storey house and John pulled in along the kerb out the front of the house. Getting out of the car, he looked at the building, a single light in the front room told him that Geny was still awake, sitting alone in there.

He walked up the path, and knocked on the door, the simple code that they all used. After a few moments, he heard the chain pulled back, the locks disengaged. Geny opened the door and stood looking at him, and John inhaled sharply as he took in the changes in his friend, the drawn and shadowed face, the increase of silver in the thick black hair, the slump to his shoulders, the depthless despair that filled his eyes.

"Geny." John stepped past him, turning as he stopped. "I'm so sorry."

Geny closed the door behind him, his head bowed as he nodded. "John, I thank you for coming but there was no need," his voice was hollowed out, a shadow of its normal timbre and range and depth.

He shambled ahead of John, turning into the small living room with the single lamp lighting a corner, the rest shrouded in dim shadows. On the low table in front of the armchair a bottle of vodka sat empty, the glass beside it empty as well.

John hesitated as he sank onto the couch, opposite his friend. He wasn't sure how to ask. "Geny, did you -"

Geny didn't even look up. "_Da_, yes. I burned her."

"What happened?"

"It was just a salt and burn, nothing special." The Russian shook his head slightly, as if he still couldn't believe what had happened, and John thought perhaps he couldn't. "The spirit was vengeful, killing teenagers. We found out the history, found the grave, dug it up. 'Tina was watching for the spirit, while I was digging. But nothing came. We found the coffin, and I broke it open." He paused, his eyes opening wide as the memory returned to him, vivid and terrifying.

"It came then, with a wind down the hill. 'Tina saw it, called to me, warned me. _YA dolzhen byl tam s nyei__̆__, ya by zashchitil yee!"_he muttered in Russian. John waited, knowing that he was almost reliving the memory.

When Geny looked up, his eyes were filled with tears. "The spirit picked her up, and threw her. I saw her disappear into the _temnota_ … uh, the darkness. The salt, the gasoline, were on the top, I jumped up, got out of the grave, grabbed the salt and poured it in, poured the gas in and lit the match. The spirit burned up. But it was too late." His head fell again, and John saw the tears falling, making dark spots on his sleeves, on his trousers.

"The spirit had thrown her against a … _mogila markera_ – uh, grave marker …" He looked at John questioningly.

"Tombstone?"

"_Da_, yes, tombstone. She lay under it, and I thought she was just unconscious. I lifted her -"

The sob came out of him explosively, his shoulders hunching as he tried to suppress it, his face twisting. "Under her, there was blood, so much blood."

Looking up at John, his arms wrapped protectively around his chest, Geny's eyes pleaded with his friend, pleaded for the memory to be false, for the event never to have happened. John's eyes darkened to nearly black as his chest constricted, and his throat clamped shut.

"I turned her over, John, and pushed her hair aside …" Geny shook his head. "Her skull was cracked open."

He hunched lower, his head on this arms, great, helpless shudders wracking through him as he moaned with the pain that wouldn't let go, that kept building and growing and filling him with it.

John moved fast to the chair, his arm curving around Geny's broad shoulders, giving the only comfort he could. Nothing he could say could ease the suffering of his friend, nothing could help. Just being there, to listen, was all he could do.

Geny rocked in the chair, his grief pouring out. Saying it, out loud, had been a step, reliving the event in his mind had made it real, made it final. It was unbearable that it was real.

John sat beside him, going through his own memories of the woman who had made such a difference in his life, in the lives of his sons, letting his tears fall with those of the man beside him.

Dawn came silently into the house, the threads of pale gold spearing delicately through the gaps in the curtains. John sat on the couch, sipping black coffee, watching Geny as he picked at the eggs and toast John had made for him.

He seemed calmer, the first violent wave of grief passed, quiet and emptiness filling them both for a short time, the emotions purged and nothing else to take their place until another memory brought it back. Geny finished the food, pushing the plate away as he picked up his cup.

"She was the only one for me, you know?" he said suddenly, looking out of the window. "She was sixteen when I married her, and everyone in our village thought we both mad. But we weren't mad, we were just sure, certain."

John leaned forward slightly, his cup forgotten in his hand. The Tasarov's had revealed some things about their lives, but always as droplets, small memories of an event or a person, never a long story, especially about how they'd escaped Russia when the communists took over.

"We walked out of Russia through Georgia, Armenia, when we were notified that our political affiliations were questionable." Geny's mouth curved into a derisive smile at that memory. "Into Turkey, down to Jordan and Palestine, and Arabia. We were just two people, and so it was easy to slip through the borders, to blend in with the locals. Valentina spoke Arabic and Hebrew, she was going to be a linguist …" he sighed, those dreams left behind so long ago, still with the power to hurt.

"We crossed the Sahara and came to America from Casablanca, just like the movie. Well," he paused, gesturing a little sheepishly. "We took a ship, not a plane, but she always loved the movie because we made it from there too."

He smiled, his eyes unfocussed. She had been so excited, being in the city, the long, slow crossing of the Atlantic, the way they'd gripped each other's hands when the skyline of New York had inched over the horizon.

Blinking, Geny looked back at John, the smile disappearing but his attention refocussing, his eyes liquid-bright, but clear for the first time.

"At home, and as we travelled south and west, there were monsters. We were naïve when we arrived here, thinking that we'd left them behind. They were here too." He sipped his coffee, rubbing the heel of his hand hard against one temple. "What am I going to do without her, John? What am I going to do?"

John watched him set the cup down and put his head into his hands, feeling as helpless as he had when he'd had to tell his sons that their mother was gone. Sometimes there was no comfort, none at all.

He felt the cup in his hands slip slightly and he looked down, finding it hard to see the cup as it shifted in and out of focus and his fingers seemed to release the handle by themselves. His vision drew in, grey around the edges and blurring. Struggling to lift his head, to turn it to look over to Geny, he felt a distant astonishment that his head wouldn't turn, his muscles weren't responding.

Geny looked up at the sound of the cup hitting the carpet and watched John's eyes roll back, watched him fall backwards against the couch.

"I'm sorry, old friend," he said quietly, getting up and pulling the knitted afghan from the back of the couch, covering John with it. "But there are some journeys that have to be made alone."

The drug would last about six hours. He had plenty of time to get packed up. Most of their things had been in storage for the last few years, the rest would join it shortly.

"_Blagodaryu vas za vashu druzhbu. Mozhem li my vstretit'sya v luchshem mire_," he said and left the room.

* * *

John woke at sunset, his eyes aching and his head pounding. He pushed aside the afghan, sitting up slowly, feeling nausea roil his stomach. Mickey, he thought sourly. He hadn't thought the Russian would be so underhanded, but Geny was being driven by grief, and he recognised that his friend was trying to protect him, trying to keep him out of whatever he had planned.

He closed his eyes, sitting still, waiting for his unsettled stomach to calm down, for the pounding in his head to ease. Then he stood carefully, and walked to the kitchen, turning the tap on over the sink and putting his mouth under it, rinsing away the stickiness from his mouth, swallowing to sooth the dryness of his throat.

He turned off the tap and looked around. The house was bare, everything was gone. He'd been out for long enough for Geny to have packed at his leisure. He went to the phone, hanging on the wall next to the bare kitchen counter, and picked it up. The dial tone sounded in his ear and he punched in Jim's number.

"Jim, he's gone." He leaned against the wall. "Slipped me a mickey and took off while I was out."

"Are you all right?" Jim's voice held concern.

"Yeah, headache but that's it. He wasn't trying to hurt me, just wanted me off his trail."

"Was he rational?"

"I thought so, at the time. Now, I'm not so sure." John frowned, rubbing his eyes gently with his fingertips as he tried to remember exactly how Geny had seemed that morning. "He's cunning. That could be rational or irrational."

"Are you coming back?"

"Yeah, I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of picking up his trail now," he told Jim, acknowledging that truth with a sigh. "I'll try and track him through the people he knows, through the usual channels, but I can do that from the house easier than on the road."

"We'll see you soon, then," Jim said. John hung up the handset and rubbed his face again. He couldn't think of a place to start to find Geny now, but the residue of the drug was still probably swirling around his system. He'd get the boys, go back to the house. He'd have some new ideas then, he hoped.

* * *

_**Watertown, South Dakota**_

John sat in the sunroom, staring at the wall, tapping the pen lightly against the notepad in front of him. He'd been looking for Geny for two months now, and so far he'd come up with exactly nothing.

"Dad?" Dean opened the door and peered around the edge of it. "You okay?"

John looked at him, dropping the pen and smiling. "Yeah, Dean, I'm just worried about Geny, that's all."

"He's a good hunter," the boy said uncertainly.

"No one's a real good hunter, hunting alone, son." John glanced out the window. "It's easy to make a mistake and there's no room for error in this life."

"Why does he want to hunt alone then?" Dean frowned. It didn't make sense to him. Geny was a good hunter, a smart hunter. He'd told the brothers a lot of stories of his hunts, when Valentina hadn't been around.

_Because he's looking for Death_, John thought bleakly. Aloud, he said, "I don't know, Dean."

"Can you find him?" The ten-year old leaned against the door, and John noticed that Dean's arms were folded tightly across his chest and there was a tension in his face.

The boys had both taken Valentina's death hard. She had cared for them many times over the last five years. Following the shtriga attack last year, John had been too worried to leave them on their own, and they'd stayed with her whenever he'd had to hunt. She had soothed their nightmares and made them laugh, hugged them and fed them and been a surrogate mother to them. To lose their own mother had been devastating, but to lose Valentina as well … Sam hadn't spoken to anyone for a week. He was better now, but still withdrawn, and prone to nightmares when he slept.

"I don't know, Dean." John looked down at the empty white notepad in front of him. "I hope so, but Geny's a very experienced man. If he doesn't want to be found, I'm not sure anyone will be able to find him."

Dean looked away. He knew that the life they were in was dangerous. Most of the time that was exciting, sometimes he was terrified, sometimes it was just plain boring, when Dad went off and he had to stay behind and look after Sam. But it hadn't occurred to him before that he could lose the friends they'd made, the people he loved to the monsters they hunted. Other people, civilians, sure, a few of them might die, but not _hunters_. And not experienced hunters like Geny … and his father. He pushed the next thought away before it could manifest completely.

John watched the play of thoughts and emotions over his son's expressive face. He understood how close this had to come to him, understood that Dean was grappling with the new concept that even a hunter could die, could be unlucky or in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wished he could hide that from him, for a few more years, the way they hid the truth about their life from Sam, with varying success. But he couldn't. Dean was his backup, the one who would have to take care of his brother if anything should happen to him. Dean needed as much information as it was safe to give him.

He rubbed his jaw. There were times when he hated himself for the decisions he'd made.

* * *

"Where?"

Dean looked up as his father's voice snapped out the word. John stood with the handset pressed to his ear, half bent over the table, his hand flying across the paper, the pen's scritching loud in the silence of the room.

"Thanks. I'll find him." He hung up the handset and looked at the boys. "Time to get going, back to Jim's while I find Geny, all right?"

"Dad …" Sam looked up, his expression both stricken and pleading. "The play's on Friday, if I'm not here, I won't get to be in it."

John's expression hardened slightly. "Sorry, Sam, I really am, but I think that making sure one of our friends is all right takes priority over a school play, don't you?"

Sam dropped his gaze to the carpet, nodding slowly. It was more important, he knew that, but he'd worked hard on this, he knew all his lines, knew what he had to do … he'd been looking forward to doing it, with his father and brother watching. He turned away and walked out of the room, up the stairs. Dean chewed on his lip, watching him.

"Dean, make sure your brother gets packed. We're leaving in half an hour."

He nodded and followed Sam up the stairs. He understood Dad's need to find Geny, and agreed with it. He also understood his brother's disappointment in missing out on something he'd worked so hard for. He dragged his feet as he climbed the stairs, wishing that something could be different – anything really – to make it somehow possible for both of the people he loved to get what they wanted.

* * *

_**Freeport, Illinois**_

"Geny."

John stood at the door, hiding his shock at the man's appearance when he opened it. The Russian hunter had lost a lot of weight, his skin sagging down over the bones of his face, his clothes hanging off him as if he were homeless and wearing cast-offs. His eyes were deeply pouched and shadowed, the long black beard rough and unkempt. The scents of vodka and sweat came off him in waves.

"John. It's been too long." Geny stepped back and John walked into the house past him, noting the slight slur in his words, the lack of focus in his eyes.

"Better late than never," John said lightly, turning as he waited for Geny to close the door.

"_Da_, yes. Never is a long time." Geny pushed the door shut, not bothering to turn the deadlocks or replace the chain. He walked slowly past John and turned into the kitchen, John following close behind him, seeing the bulky outline of a bandage beneath the shirtsleeve.

"Geny, what happened?" He stood beside the table, staring at his friend's back as Geny pulled a bottle of vodka from the fridge. "You're injured."

"Just a scratch." Geny barely glanced down at the bandage. "I was hunting a werewolf and it turned and caught me, just as I was stepping back. Is not bad."

"Can I see it then?" John asked firmly. Geny shrugged and sat down at the small table, unbuttoning the sleeve and rolling it up, high on the upper arm. The bandage was rough, bulky and dirty. John untied the ends and unwound it from the arm, rolling it as he went. He eased back the dressing, his brows drawing together as he saw the red streaks of inflammation radiating out from the three deep claw wounds.

Geny sat with his head turned away, lifting the bottle to his mouth and swallowing. John saw him flinch slightly as he lifted the blood soaked gauze pad off, but other than that he showed little interest.

"Geny, I have to clean this properly. It's infected," John said gently. Geny nodded, taking another swallow from the bottle. John filled a pot with water and set it on the burner, turning it on. He pulled his own first aid kit from his duffle, lifting it onto the table and setting out what he needed. When the water was boiling, he added salt to it and took it off the heat, waiting for it to cool sufficiently to wash out the wound.

He cleaned the claw marks thoroughly, sluicing down the cuts with the saline solution. From the kit he took a bottle of alcohol and poured a little down the cuts after, Geny's face tightening as he clenched his jaws, the alcohol on the raw flesh burning like acid.

John took the small bottle of anti-bacterial powder and filled the cuts with it, then laid a fresh, sterilised gauze pad over the wounds, taping it down.

"Why didn't you dress this properly?" he asked his friend, his tone mild as he picked up the roll of clean bandage and wound it around the arm, covering the area.

Geny didn't respond and John sighed inwardly.

When he'd finished, Geny turned and looked at it, nodding slightly. John unrolled the sleeve and buttoned it at the cuff again.

"You're not looking after yourself, Geny." He sat down at the table.

"No," Geny agreed flatly.

"You think Valentina would have wanted to see you do this?"

"It doesn't matter, does it? She can't see it. She can't see anything," the hunter's voice cracked a little and he lifted the bottle again.

"She's some place better, Geny, waiting for you -"

"Come on, John, there is no place better, and you know it." He shook his head tiredly. "I don't want to be here, don't you understand? Nothing has meaning without her. I'm not so stupid as to commit suicide but no, I am not taking care. _Iisus Khristos!_ It doesn't matter if I die tomorrow."

"It matters to me, Geny!" John said vehemently, leaning forward and reaching out to grab the man's shirtfront. "It matters to my sons, who love you. It matters to Jim and Bill and Ellen and Daniel and everyone else who cares for you. How can you say it doesn't matter?"

Geny bowed his head, the bottle thumping back onto the table as he stared back at his friend. "I'm sorry, John, I am, but it's too late."

"Don't say that." John shook his head. "It's never too late and no matter how bad it is now, you know it will –" he stopped abruptly, unable to say the platitude. It didn't get better. It got … easier to ignore, sometimes. That was all. "It won't always feel like this," he continued after a moment, his voice calm again.

Shrugging, Geny slumped in his chair, staring at the opposite wall.

"Come on, you're tired. Go to bed." John stood up, and after a moment, Geny did too. They walked to the bedroom, and the Russian half-sat, half-fell onto the bed. Pulling back the covers, unlacing and pulling off his boots, John watched his face. Geny didn't help but he wasn't being obstructive either, his expression slack and empty, his eyes hooded. He toppled slowly back as John pushed him, rolling onto one shoulder and closing his eyes when John drew the covers over him.

"In the morning, we'll talk, all right? We'll figure something out."

He looked down at his friend, feeling his heart twist in his chest at how much he'd changed, how much his loss had changed him. The grief had been eating away at him, tearing through almost everything he'd known of the Russian and leaving a husk in his place.

Had he changed like this, when Mary had died, he wondered uneasily? Had his friends looked at him and seen the ravages of his unwinnable war with himself etched into his flesh?

Geny grunted softly.

* * *

John woke, stretching out on the long couch. He could smell fresh coffee from the kitchen, and the curtains had been pulled back, letting the bright sunshine fill the room.

Sitting up, he rubbed a hand over his face as he swung his legs to the floor and got to his feet. He walked down to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, watching Geny cracking eggs into the frypan, push bread into the toaster, pour coffee from the glass pot into two cups.

The Russian turned around and smiled as he caught sight of John. He put the cups on the table and stretched out his arms to either side.

"What do you think, eh?" He had showered and shaved, trimming his beard and moustache. He wore clean clothes, still too large on his reduced frame, but a vast improvement over the night before. His hair was brushed back from his forehead, his teeth gleamed white.

"I think it's a huge improvement." John grinned at him. "What made you change your mind?"

"Honestly? The smell," Geny admitted with a rueful laugh, turning back to the stove, flipping the eggs. "It was making me want to puke."

John walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, picking up the coffee cup. "Had a good effect then."

"Yeah." Geny lifted the pan from the heat as the toaster popped. "John, I'm sorry about – everything, I guess. Sorry for drugging you in Cedar Rapids, sorry I didn't listen to you before. Sorry I didn't try and help myself."

John shrugged. "You don't need to be, Geny."

He nodded, setting the food onto plates. "Maybe, yes, but I am. I believe that the phrase is 'horse's ass'?"

"If you insist," John agreed, a corner of his mouth lifting a little. "Grief does that."

Putting the plates on the table, Geny sat down. They ate breakfast and talked of nothing consequential, the conversation flowing without effort over what had happened to them both over the last couple of months, what the other hunters were doing, how Sam and Dean were going.

John watched Geny carefully, trying not to look like that's what he was doing. He didn't trust the abrupt change, at least not all of it. He'd worked with Geny for a long time now, and he knew when the Russian was keeping something hidden. He felt it now.

He made a decision as they sat at the table, drinking cup after cup of the good brewed coffee.

"Are you sure you're all right, Geny?"

"_Da_, yes. I'm fine, John. I needed a kick in the pants, and you delivered." He gave John a rueful smile. "I won't be hunting alone from now on. It's too easy to get killed that way, or worse." For a second his eyes flickered away, darkening and John felt his heart sink.

"Well, I have to trust you on this, I gotta get to St Louis by Monday to help out Olivia with a haunting."

"You can, don't worry." Geny smiled, his eyes clear again.

"I'll see you when I come back through, all right?"

"Yeah, that would be good, John."

Ten minutes later as John walked down the path to the car, he could feel Geny's eyes on his back. He unlocked it and got in, started the engine and pulled out, heading down the street.

* * *

He drove to the local rental place and switched the highly conspicuous Impala for a totally forgettable Ford hatchback, driving back to Geny's and parking several houses down on the same side of the road. He turned off the engine and sat for several moments, listening to the soft tick of the hot metal, thinking over everything he'd seen of his friend, everything he knew of him.

At nine o'clock, the moon rose full, clearing the rooftops and shining so brilliantly that the street had two sets of shadows, one from the streetlights, and the second from the white glare of moonlight. It was the last night that the moon would be counted as full, tomorrow night it would begin to wane and he would have to wait another month before he could be sure.

The wound was what had bothered him. It was new but not from last night. At least two, maybe three days old to have begun to be infected like that. And the pain would have been considerable. For Geny not to have noticed, even under the shroud of grief, was not possible.

Slipping from the car, John closed the door carefully, and walked under the shadows of the trees along the pavement. When he reached the corner of Geny's yard, he stopped, and waited, leaning slightly back against the wall, watching and waiting.

* * *

At two in the morning, he began to hope, the night was waning away to dawn, the moon almost to the western horizon and perhaps he'd been wrong after all.

He edged down the shadows along the wall, grateful that the house was a rental and no one had put in flower beds down the boundary. He could see into the house from the side window and it was dark and peaceful. He moved a little further into the yard, stopping under the shadow of a young tree planted close by the wall when he heard the noise.

Breathing.

Heavy, stentorian panting.

He felt the rough bark of the tree trunk against his back, turning his head slowly left. From the dappled black and silver shrubs just beyond the tree, John saw it rise, hands and feet deformed and elongated into pads and claws, the flesh pared back to the bone under the ribs and to the pelvis. Thickened black hair gleaming like watered silk from the brows, over the flattened skull and down the neck, reaching halfway down the back. The disproportionate head turned toward him and he looked into the bright amber eyes, glowing like baleful fires, looking back at him.

It threw up its head, and the howl split the night, rising and falling and rising again, echoing mournfully against the hard walls and vanishing suddenly as the head dropped, and it turned, eyes fixed on him, muscles rippling under the strained skin.

He brought up his long flashlight, the Colt in his right hand underneath it. His thumb found the switch and the powerful beam speared out, hitting the werewolf in the face as he clicked off the safety, aimed and fired. The first bullet hit slightly to the right of centre, the second bullet ploughed through the chest left of centre and he watched it fall, tears filling his eyes and falling unchecked.

Geny lay on the ground, his blood soaking into the short grass and black earth. John crouched beside him, looking down at the oval of punctures on both sides of his right shoulder. Bite marks. The flesh was livid and torn.

On the left arm, the bandage had been pulled off, the claw marks still relatively clean. Over his lower face, neck and chest, John saw blood, not Geny's. The spray pattern indicated that the werewolf had bitten through the throat of his victim, before taking the heart. He hoped so. He didn't want to come back to this town for another werewolf hunt in a month's time.

His friend's eyes were open but he was gone, the eyeballs already drying out in death. John looked down at Geny, knowing that he done it to affect this ending. John hoped that he'd thought some other hunter would kill him, but perhaps he thought of everyone, he would understand the terrible choice, would kill him cleanly, give him the peace he desperately sought.

He stood slowly, replacing flashlight and gun in his jacket pockets. He walked to the house and let himself in, going to the linen closet for a couple of sheets. He stopped in the kitchen, seeing the envelope resting against the condiment bottles. It was addressed to him. He tucked the envelope into his jacket, and walked through the rest of the house, finding ten boxes, neatly filled and sealed and stacked by the front door, another envelope, this time to Jim, taped to the top. He left those where they were. Geny had wanted Jim to deal with his stuff, and he would honour that.

Leaving the house, John locked the door behind him. The gunshot had set dogs barking several houses down the street but hadn't seemed to arouse any other attention. He knelt by the body and rolled it tightly in the sheets, leaving it in the deep black shadows under the tree. He had to get the car and return the piece of crap he was using to finish the night's work.

Perhaps mercifully, he was on automatic pilot, his body doing everything just fine without him. His mind felt empty. He thought that pain and grief and confusion would come soon enough. In the meantime, the silence was a relief because he one more job to do.

The flames licked the dry wood at the base of the pyre and rose, sending smoke and a sibilant crackling into the air. John stood to one side, his head bowed, remembering everything he could about the man who had saved his life, taken care of him and the boys, had given of his time and knowledge and experience generously, who had helped through him through the most difficult transition in his life. He hoped fervently that Geny would be reunited with Valentina, someplace else, someplace better, because no one deserved it more than they.

He stood and watched the wood consumed, the body consumed, and the ashes crumble and fall as the first rays of sunlight lit up the eastern sky. Walking back to the Impala when the last of the pyre fell with a soft hiss onto the burned ground, John wondered if one day someone, perhaps one of his sons, would spend the evening watching him burn the same way. He slid into the driver's seat, hearing the rustle of the envelope in his pocket and he pulled it out, lifting the loose flap and extracting the short letter.

_My dear John, I knew when you left that you would be back. You are, if nothing else, an observant sonofabitch, and the wound wasn't as new as I had implied. It was a mistake, not a deliberate act – it's important to me that you know that._

_I hope it will be you that delivers the final bullet. I don't want to put the burden of killing me on your shoulders, but you will, I think, understand why I have done what I have done. Valentina was more to me than a companion, than a wife, than a friend, she was all of these and more, and I have found over the last months that it is getting harder to be without her, not easier._

_I am sorry that we will not be there to support you in your hunt, and I know now that your heart, like mine, will never heal. Look after your boys, teach them discipline and all they need to know to survive, to be strong and able to protect others, but John, teach them also about love and joy and that family, above all else, is the treasure that every man seeks._

_Geny_

* * *

John pulled into Jim's churchyard at noon, and hugged the boys when they came running out to him. Jim looked at his face and shook his head, his mouth tight and the prick of tears at the back of his eyes as he turned away and walked back into the church.

John followed him slowly, sending the boys back into the house to pack their things. He found him sitting in a pew, close by the altar.

"He was bitten by the werewolf he'd hunted."

John sat down in the pew across the aisle, rubbing his hand over his face, feeling the grime and soot of the fire still on him. "There are some boxes in his house, with a letter addressed to you on top of them."

Jim nodded slowly. "He mentioned that he would be naming me as his executor some years back." He turned to look at John.

"You had to kill him, didn't you?"

"Yeah." John looked up at the altar, at the body of Christ on the cross behind it. "Where's God in all of this, Jim?"

"He's here, John. He's giving us the strength to keep going, the courage to keep fighting, the compassion to mourn our companions and keep our love for them in our hearts."

John shook his head, looking at him. "I'm just not feeing that, Jim."

"You will, in time," Jim told him, looking up at the altar. "You believe in demons, John, you better believe in God."

* * *

"_Oh that it were possible, after long grief and pain, to find the arms of my true love, around me once again"_

_~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson_


	9. Chapter 9 What Goes Around

**Chapter 9 What Goes Around**

* * *

"_Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there."  
~ Otomo No Yakamochi_

* * *

_**December 15, 1989. Windom, Minnesota.**_

John rubbed his hands together, cursing himself for leaving his gloves at the room. The cemetery was dim in the grey early morning light, icicles hanging from the bare branches, the grass dead under a thin scrim of icy snow. Ground fog rose from the dips and hollows, shrouding everything in a translucent mist, swirling occasionally with the faint breeze coming from the river. It blew across the open space and he turned his back to it, looking up the path toward the road. Massachusetts had been bad for the cold, but Minnesota was like an icebox. Deputy Barton would be here in a few minutes anyway, he thought, and they could move to the relative shelter of the mausoleum.

He blew on his fingers again and looked up as the deputy came over the rise along the path, barely visible through the fog. John waved. Barton had just begun to lift his own hand in acknowledgement, when he froze, then started running. John looked at him, cognition of the reason coming a second later. He threw himself to one side as the cleaver hissed through air where his head had been, the short heavy blade driving into the top of his shoulder. Staggering sideways and dropping to one knee at the force of the impact, he was suddenly grateful for the icy weather as the thick padding of his clothes took most of the hit.

He fumbled at his coat, fingers not responding properly. The sonofabitch had hit his right arm and it was hanging uselessly by his side, while his machete was sheathed flat against his left hip. Too close, his mind screamed at him. You're too fucking close to it and he dropped and rolled, grunting as the shoulder took his weight, and scrambled to his feet, gripping the dimpled haft of the machete with his left hand and drawing it out with a savage yank. He was turning as the cleaver came scything through the air again for him, meeting the blade with his own, the weight of the heavier weapon jarring him from wrist to elbow as he swept it away from his body. He kept turning, raising the machete high and felt the edge bite deeply into the ghoul's neck, but without the force needed to separate the vertebrae. Blood gouted from the wound, spraying over his face and chest, and he stumbled back, unable to see through the sticky liquid coating his eyes. He heard a bubbling cry and half-turned, feeling the blade cut across his ribs, the edge bouncing off the bones. As he twisted away, he felt the ground drop away beneath his foot, the loss of balance taking him down. The ground rose up to meet him, hitting him in the back with a thud. Rolling back to his feet, he crouched, listening.

He heard a heavy clunk and someone near, panting. "Joe? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me," Deputy Barton's voice was shaking. "John, are you all right?"

John dropped the machete, wiping at his eyes with his hand. He felt light-headed and clumsy, smearing the blood over his face, the muscles of his legs trembling suddenly.

He opened one eye as he dropped back to his knees, just making out Joe moving toward him, a long bladed machete in one hand, a body lying on the ground behind him, then his vision greyed and faded out.

"John? John!" Deputy Barton looked down at the man, seeing the blood soaked jacket, blood dripping from the edges of the material, dripping onto the snow and turning it red as well.

He pulled his radio from his coat. "This is Deputy Joe Barton, I need an ambulance at the corner of Charlton and Manning Streets, immediately."

* * *

Kate Milligan looked down at the man in the bed. He'd been brought in last night, bleeding copiously and chopped up. The police officer who'd accompanied him had told the doctor that he'd been attacked by a maniac with a cleaver, and seeing the x-rays, Kate had been ready to believe that.

In sleep, his face was relaxed, and kind, she thought. She had no idea why this patient was affecting her so, but he was. Something about him just called to something inside of her, an attraction that had no basis in real life – she didn't know anything about him other than the name that appeared on his health insurance card. He was darkly handsome, his body muscular and hard in a way she associated with professional athletes, or soldiers, but although that was a part of it, it wasn't all of it. She reached out and lightly smoothed his hair back from his forehead, then turned away quickly and left the room. She had no business having feelings for a patient, she told herself impatiently. Not any patient but especially not an unconscious one.

* * *

John opened his eyes slowly, turning his head. The plain white walls, stainless steel trolleys, and banks of electronic monitors surrounding his bed gave away the location.

Hospital. He closed his eyes again, and focussed his senses on his body, searching for pain, for lack of movement. Aside from a deep ache in his shoulder, tenderness around the ribs on the left side, and a sore spot on the side of his head, he couldn't find anything else. He tensed the muscles of his right arm, and sucked in a sharp breath as that brought a bright and hot pain to his shoulder. That felt … reasonably serious, he thought. He remembered the feeling the impact as the cleaver's edge had hit the bone, the reverberation that had numbed the arm, and thought he might have gotten away lucky.

"Are you awake?" The voice was female, concerned, and John opened his eyes again.

The nurse sitting beside him smiled a little nervously as he focussed on her, rising to her feet.

"Are you in pain?" She glanced at the drip hanging beside the bed. "I can increase this if you need it."

He shook his head slightly, watching her. She was a small, slender woman, long blonde hair neatly drawn back and clipped, sherry-brown eyes that flicked back to him frequently as she moved around the bed, making notes of the monitor readouts.

"Water?" his voice cracked slightly, his mouth dry. She turned at once, filling a cup from the jug beside the bed, and coming up beside him, her fingers holding the straw for him. The water was cool and he drank it all, nodding when it was gone.

"How long–" He coughed slightly, clearing his throat. "–how long do I have be here?"

"Another three or four days," she told him, putting his chart back at the foot of the bed. "The collarbone took most of the impact, and it's fractured; the cut along your ribs has been stitched, but they're quite severely bruised, and you have bruising on the side of your skull, so it's a matter of staying quiet until the swelling goes down."

He nodded carefully. "Can I have a phone? I need to call my family."

"Of course, I'll bring one in."

"What's your name?" John asked her as she turned to leave.

"Kate, Kate Milligan."

"Thank you, Kate." He managed a smile. She smiled back at him.

"All part of the friendly service, Mr Petrovsky."

John gave a weak laugh, remembering the health insurance card that was in his wallet. "It's John."

* * *

_**December 19, 1989. Housatonic, Massachusetts.**_

Donna Stevenson dropped the groceries on the kitchen table, and ran for the phone, picking it up on the sixth ring.

"Hello?"

"Donna? It's John."

"John! I was getting worried about you," Donna said, leaning back against the wall and pulling off her shoes, the phone tucked against her shoulder.

"Look, I'm sorry, but something's come up, and I'll be stuck here for another couple of weeks."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine, it's just unavoidable." John sighed inwardly. He wouldn't be able to drive for at least another two weeks, that was pretty unavoidable.

"No problem, the boys have settled in here and they're getting on at school."

"Thanks. I'll keep in touch, let you know what's going on." He looked up as a doctor came in. "I've got to go, but I'll call again later."

"Okay, take care. Bye." She hung up the phone, kicking the shoes that had been pinching her toes all day under the narrow table, and walked slowly back to the kitchen.

Dean and Sam were no trouble, and the extra money from this extracurricular job was very handy. She'd changed her hours at the Mayflower when John had suggested the arrangement, working a straight day shift now. The last two times when John had called, the boys had stayed at the hotel, and she'd kept an eye on them there, but that was just a matter of a couple of days at most. Her apartment was roomy, an older-style three bedroom that had gone out of fashion in the real estate market and was subsequently a very cheap rental. There was more than enough room and the school was only a couple of blocks away.

She unpacked the groceries and set out what she'd planned for dinner, looking up as the boys came in.

"Your dad just rang, he'll be another couple of weeks." She watched their faces fall, and smiled. "Come on, you guys are making me feel bad, we're having lasagne for dinner, who's going to help?"

Sam's face brightened, he loved lasagne. Dean nodded reluctantly.

"Okay, homework first, then we'll start," she said, watching them head into the living room, and sighing as they disappeared from view. They needed stability; kids were adaptable, more so than adults, but it didn't help that they were moving all over the place.

She'd met the family three years ago at the hotel. They'd stood out, all three reticent and polite, the boys well-behaved, almost militaristically so. After their third or fourth stay, John had let it slip that he wasn't a salesman, and that he needed someone to keep an eye on them while he was gone and she'd agreed, liking the man, liking the children. She had no real idea of what John did, although the boys had told her some wild tales. One day she'd corner him and get him to explain it all to her, she thought, but in the meantime, she could at least give them some semblance of normalcy.

* * *

_**December 21, 1989. Windom, Minnesota.**_

_He lay on his back, his head cushioned on her lap, pain radiating inside of him. Close by, he heard a chuckle and a voice with a drawling southern accent, talking, mocking her. He felt Mary's fingers on his neck, curved around his face, felt her shaking, felt the shock and horror filling her._

_He opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing her face harden, and he knew she'd made a decision. He heard her agree to the demon and closed his eyes, knowing what would happen, knowing where they were heading._

Thrashing in the bed, his skin slick with sweat as he tried to stop her, tried to tell her. _No deal, Mary. Let me die._

"John, John … wake up now." Kate took his hand in her own, wiping the sweat from his face with the other, stroking his cheek as she kept talking. "John, it's a dream, just a dream, wake up, wake up now."

He lurched into wakefulness, feeling fingers around his hand, a cool palm against the heat in his face.

"It's okay, just a nightmare," Kate said soothingly, and he took a deep breath, swallowing down the fear, eyes half-closed as he looked around. He felt his pulse slow as the familiar hospital surroundings became clear.

"Can I … uh … have a drink?" He relaxed back against the pillow, fingers closing involuntarily on air as she withdrew her hand.

She nodded and walked to the jug, pouring him a glass. He swallowed the cool water fast, washing the sour taste of fear from his mouth and throat, pushing away the remaining fragments of the dream.

"Thanks." He handed her the cup, wincing slightly as the reach tugged at the stitches over his ribs.

"Are you all right?" She looked carefully at him, brow wrinkled with concern. "It was hard to wake you."

His mouth twisted ruefully. "Yeah, I'm a pretty deep sleeper. I'm all right, just a bad dream."

"Is Mary your wife?" She glanced down at the ring on his left hand. "You were calling out for her."

"She was. She died a few years ago," John said, his gaze following hers to the ring. He couldn't take it off, knew now that he'd never take it off.

"I'm sorry." Kate watched him, seeing sorrow, regret and pain flash over his face. He looked up at the gentleness of her tone and saw the sympathy in her eyes. It wasn't unwelcome but it reminded him that personal connections were not viable in his life. He couldn't be vulnerable to others, not even on a friendship level. He'd lost too many people.

Kate saw his face close, the pain and uncertainty in his eyes disappear, leaving an impervious mask. She felt the dismissal and stood, turning away.

"I can get you some sleeping tablets, if you need them. They tend to stop dreams."

"Thanks, but I'll be okay," he said, keeping his voice low. He looked at her back, seeing the tension there, knowing that he'd caused it. He was usually a lot better at deflecting people's concern.

She nodded and left the room.

* * *

_**December 24, 1989.**_

"You ready for the doctor to poke and prod?" Kate asked as she walked into the room. John looked up and gave her a one-sided smile.

"Think he's going to find something else wrong with me?"

"Nah," she said, picking up his chart and moving to the side of the bed to check the monitors. "He's sick of the sight of you."

John snorted. "That's what I thought."

She attached the cuff of the blood pressure machine and looked down at him. "How's the shoulder feel today?"

"Sore, not agonising," he told her, closing his fist slightly. "The nurses here do good work."

"Ah, I bet you say that to all the girls who've changed your IV," she quipped lightly. Over the last week, she'd seen the number of scars his body carried, and had questioned him about it cautiously. He'd given her a dozen wildly different explanations, all with a smile, and it'd set a tone between them, light and easy.

"Mr Petrovsky," Dr Moran said as he came into the room. "How're we feeling today? Pain? No? That's good."

John pushed himself higher against the pillows that braced his back. "How soon can I go?"

"Well, we've done all that we can for you, and you are healing, pretty fast too, but you're going to be disabled for at least another week. If I discharge you, is there anyone you can stay with?" Dr Moran looked at John over his glasses, the chart in his hands.

"Ah, I'll find someone," John prevaricated, wondering if Bobby and Rufus had finished up in Kansas yet. He'd rung Ellen this morning and Jim and Bill would not be back until the end of the week at the earliest. He could probably get by if he went to a hotel, someplace decent with room service.

"Make sure you do, because the more stress you put on the shoulder and collarbone, the slower it will heal, and the less use you'll have with it in the future."

"Uh huh." John nodded, chewing absently on the inside of his lip as he thought about the options available.

Kate watched Dr Moran leave and replaced the clipboard in its slot at the foot of the bed. She glanced under her lashes at John, her thoughts churning as she watched him wrestling with what was obviously a lack of people he could turn to.

"If you don't have anyone, you could stay with me for a week," she said diffidently, a part of her shocked that the words had actually come out of her mouth, that she was brazenly offering her home to him, another part darkly thrilled at her courage. It wasn't like she didn't know him, she told herself, firmly squashing the thrilled part. And it wasn't like he could be a danger. She had a good instinct for people, learned and honed on the job. He was a good man, she was sure of that.

"I'm on day shift next week, so you'd be by yourself for the day."

John looked at her, seeing the faint flush of red on her neck. "That's kind of you, Kate but -"

"It's either that or a hotel, right?" she pressed, gathering her courage. In the last week, her initial feelings had grown. She could admit to it. She still wasn't sure of what it was, exactly, that drew her to him, but she wanted to find out. "So it'll be a business arrangement – live-in nurse at half the price."

John smiled reluctantly, still not sure what had prompted the offer. "How much do you charge?"

"Rates are very reasonable," Kate said, thinking fast. "Twenty-five a day for room and board, and such nursing care as you might need."

John's eyebrows rose. "You'll put yourself out of business charging that low."

She smiled suddenly, ducking her head. "Look, my apartment is a two bedroom, and you need someone who can change those dressings, make sure that the wounds don't get infected. I'm a good cook, and I could use the extra at the moment." It wasn't strictly speaking true, she managed fine on her salary, but it was a tiny white lie.

"You're sure? I'm not exactly the world's best patient." He watched her face, seeing the determination change to relief.

"I'm a nurse, I've seen them all," she said with a light shrug, feeling her heart lift. He was going to agree. She wasn't sure what she would gain from having him in her home, but she didn't care, not right now. She just didn't want to see him walk out of the hospital and disappear.

"If you're sure, then thanks. It'd be a big help to me," John said, his reluctance dissolving. His immediate problem was solved. If he could stay with her for a week, someone would be free next week to help him get back to Massachusetts and pick up the boys, get back to Jim's.

He was going to miss Christmas, again, he realised with a sharp stab of guilt. He'd have to call Donna, wire her some money. Rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes, he wondered what he could do to make up for it.

* * *

_**December 26, 1989. Housatonic, Massachusetts.**_

"Can I call Dad?" Dean looked at Donna, his eyes wide and pleading. She smiled, and nodded.

"The new number's on the fridge." She glanced at the clock, it was just past six. "Get your brother first, so Sam can talk to him too."

Dean yelled for Sam, and picked up the phone, looking at the number and dialling. He listened to the phone ringing.

"Hello?"

Dean looked at the phone in surprise. "Hello? Uh … is John Winchester there?"

"Hold on, I'll just get him."

Donna raised her brows questioningly at Dean. He shrugged.

"Some lady."

"Dean? Is everything all right?" John's voice was low and concerned.

"Dad? No, we're fine. I … I just wanted to talk to you," Dean said, his teeth worrying at the side of his lip.

"Dean, this is really an emergency number, not for chit-chat."

Dean heard a tone in his father's voice he hadn't heard before. He wasn't angry, he sounded uncomfortable. "Oh."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"When are you coming back?" Dean asked, feeling Sam jostle up behind him.

"Soon, maybe next week."

"That's not soon." He pushed Sam away, pressing the phone harder against his ear. "Who was the lady who answered the phone?"

"Just a friend, Dean." John was losing patience. "Is that it?"

"No, Sam wants to talk," he said quickly, handing the phone to his brother.

"Dad? Are you okay? When are you coming back?"

"Soon, Sam. I'm fine," John said quietly, aware of Kate chopping vegetables in the kitchen, listening to him. "Sammy, I have to go now. Say goodnight to your brother for me."

"Okay. Bye." Sam hung up the phone. "Dad said to say goodnight."

Dean nodded, feeling unhappy and restless. What was his father doing? Why couldn't he come back for them? Who was that lady?

Donna watched him. "Your dad okay, Dean?"

He looked up at her and scowled. "Yeah, he said he'd be back next week."

"I guess he's still busy then." She understood his anger and confusion. This was the longest John had left them with her, and without giving a full explanation. He'd forbidden her to tell them about his injuries, worried that they would worry about him if they knew. She wasn't sure that had been such a good idea. Dean worried more about not being told the truth, than he would about anything else, she thought, and he had a pretty good radar for lies already.

* * *

_**Windom, Minnesota.**_

"Sorry about that. I gave out the number strictly for emergencies." John looked over at Kate as he hung up the phone.

"Was that your son?" Kate asked, keeping her gaze on the chopping board. She pushed aside the chopped tomato and picked up an onion, the knife in her hand slicing it into thin rounds.

"Yeah, the eldest one, Dean. Sammy's four years younger. They're staying with a friend, so that they could keep on at school," he said, then wondered why he'd felt the need to give out so much information.

"Oh." The knife flashed up and down as she kept slicing.

John eased himself back on the couch. The apartment wasn't large, but it was very comfortable, books and music recordings filling the shelving that covered two walls, the selections telling him quite a lot about the woman who lived here.

"What made you move here from Ohio, Kate?"

She looked up, surprised, and John smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I'm a private investigator, and nosiness is a part of the job."

"I …uh …"

The last thing she wanted to do was tell him the truth, the long and rather sordid explanation about her ex-husband. On the other hand, she thought, as a PI he could probably find out the truth easily, if he had a mind to. She preferred the truth. No one could trip you up later that way.

"I had a bad marriage. And when it was over, I wanted to get a long way away from him."

Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the short answer held a wealth of pain, and John winced, wishing he'd picked something else to ask.

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be. I was young, and very naïve," Kate said lightly. "It was a mistake I won't repeat."

She swept the sliced onion and chopped tomatoes into the pot and turned on the burner, rinsing the knife and wiping down the board and the counter. The bottle of red had been breathing quietly for an hour, and she took two glasses from the cupboard and filled them, setting hers on the counter, and taking the other to him.

Returning to the kitchen, she busied herself adding mushrooms and garlic to the pot, and turned the heat down slightly, then filled another pot with water, setting it on the stove. Spaghetti was something everyone could eat, her mother had told her, and she'd refined a Naples recipe for herself, using a lot of vegetables as well as the usual ground beef. It made a tasty and filling meal that was also easy and fast to prepare.

"How old are your boys?" she asked when the food was underway to cook itself, picking up her glass and taking a sip.

"Eleven and seven." John tasted the wine, brows rising slightly at the quality.

"They must miss you when you're on the road."

"Yeah. Not as much as I miss them," he told her, the ever-present frustration escaping in a sigh. "Things got complicated when Mary died."

Kate watched the expressions flit over his face, a complicated mix, she thought. Knowing how much he'd loved his wife, still loved her, she guessed, curiously made him more attractive, not less. She supposed some of that came in relation to the way Ron had been – she doubted if he'd even noticed that she'd gone – but even from talking to her friends, it seemed to be a rare thing in a man, at least these days.

"I guess there's no way to get around the amount of travelling you have to do?"

"No," John said, his voice heavy. "No way around at that at all."

Kate set her glass down and added the meat, sauce, some wine and the rest of the vegetables. The water was almost boiling and she took down the pasta, putting it into the pot and setting the lid over it.

John looked across the table at Kate. "You _are_ a good cook."

She laughed. "Anyone can make spaghetti."

"Not a sauce that tastes like that," he said, wincing a little as he set the fork down on the plate and tugged at the stitches in his side. Kate stood up, taking both plates to the sink.

"Go over to the couch, I'll change those dressings."

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiled to herself, as she rinsed off the plates. Over dinner, he'd relaxed a little more, and they'd found enough to talk about without the conversation becoming very personal. She felt as if she were on the longest first date of her life.

From the bathroom, she collected what she needed to redress his wounds, walking back into the living room and setting them out on the low table next to the couch. She noticed that he'd moved their glasses from the dining table, refilling both.

He sat very straight, facing her, and she undid the tabs holding the sling in place, easing it out from under his arm. She glanced up at him, and her eyes met his, a slight jolt passing through her, as if she'd touched a live wire. His face had been expressionless, but she felt she could have drowned in the dark green eyes that looked steadily into hers. Dropping her gaze to his shirt, she kept her eyes on the buttons as she undid them, standing to slip it off his arms carefully, acutely aware that her heart was beating too fast.

Under the shirt, the white dressings that covered the wounds stood out brightly against the dark palette of bruised skin. Kate peeled away the gauze pad over the cut on his ribs first, easing the tape off as gently as she could. The wound was closing up, and the edges were clean. The whole side of him from chest to hip was livid, still blue around the wound, but fading to green and yellow further away, and she felt him flinch as her fingers touched a little too firmly.

"Sorry." She looked up at him, seeing the suppression of pain in the tightness of his mouth, the muscle twitching slightly in his jaw.

John shook his head slightly, her hands had been very gentle, the area was just tender still.

Kate misted the wound lightly with the antibacterial spray and set the new dressing over it, smoothing the adhesive tape down as lightly as possible. She would need to take out the stitches tomorrow, she realised, his skin was healing fast, any longer and they'd grow in.

She let out her breath when the dressing was finished, and turned to the shoulder. Collarbones were awkward to break; nothing could support them while they healed up again, other than wearing the sling all the time to keep the arm in place. At the end of the bone, where it met the shoulder joint, was the dressing covering the gash that the cleaver had inflicted. Spreading out from under the dressing, the skin was bruised, over the deltoid muscles that ran up to his neck, down the pectorals and halfway down his upper arm, but it was fading to green and yellow more quickly than on his side.

She picked away the tape that was holding the pad in place, and lifted it carefully, exposing the four inch gash where the edge of the blade had cut through the skin and half of the tendon. Dr Moran had done an excellent job of rejoining the tendon, and she thought he'd have almost full use of the shoulder when it had healed. The stitches were clean and dry, and she replaced the dressing quickly.

"They look good," she said quietly, "I'll take out the stitches tomorrow, before they grow in."

"Do you think I'll have the full use of the arm?" John asked. Kate nodded, reaching for his shirt.

"Yes, if you can keep it quiet now, and for a few more days, it should be fine."

"How long before I can drive?" He lifted his arm as she slid the sleeve over it.

"Oh, probably a couple of weeks?" She leaned close to him to draw the shirt around his back, struggling to focus on what she was doing as the smell of him filled her nostrils, a clean masculine smell, a subtle hint of musk underlying it.

"There's practically nothing we don't use our shoulders for, so most things are out," she added, a little breathlessly, guiding his hand through the other sleeve.

He looked down at her as she re-buttoned the shirt, her fingers fumbling a little over the small buttons. He'd felt the small jolt when their eyes had met earlier, the reminder that he could still feel, could still want. He could see her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, too fast for what she was doing. He knew his own was beating too fast as well. It wasn't a good idea, he thought, to further complicate an already complicated situation. Not to mention that he was in no shape to take on that sort of action right now.

Kate picked up the sling, and slid it back under his arm, half-kneeling beside him to be able to do up the tabs that held it place. She smoothed the edges down, and sat back to look at it critically.

"Is that all right? Is the arm steady?"

John nodded. "It's fine."

Getting to her feet and walking around the couch, Kate stopped behind him. "How's the pain here? Is it still very tender?"

"Uh …" John felt his mouth dry suddenly as her fingers slid gently through his hair, careful not to get too close to the swelling that was still there. "It's been okay, a bit sore."

"No headache?"

"No."

"There's some tension here." Kate let her fingertips slide down the back of his skull to his neck, feeling the knots in the muscle there. John closed his eyes as the featherlight touch sent another charge through his nervous system.

"Just … uh …" He could feel himself tensing further as her fingers moved in small circles over the muscles. "From changing the … uh … dressing."

Kate felt the muscles hardening and lifted her hands, moving to the other side of the low table to sit in the armchair. She leaned forward and picked up her glass, sipping it to hide her discomfort. It'd been an impulse, one she was regretting now.

John looked at the glass he'd refilled and decided against it. He'd been perfectly fine with the woman sitting opposite him before … before she'd touched him. He needed to get back to that state. He stood up carefully, and smiled, hoping that it looked reasonably natural.

"Think I'll hit the hay," he told her, wincing inwardly at the stiffness of his tone. "'night, Kate."

He turned away, and walked slowly out of the living room and down the hall, feeling his ribs protesting slightly.

Kate looked at the other glass. The ease of their earlier conversation had gone, replaced by a tension that she wasn't sure was coming only from her. He'd seemed uncomfortable. Had he picked up on her feelings? She felt a warmth rise into her cheeks at the thought.

She stood abruptly and took both glasses to the sink, pouring the wine down the drain and setting them on the counter. She felt too agitated to sleep but at glance at the clock told her that she needed to get to bed, her work day started early and went long.

* * *

"Kate!"

She woke with a start at the cry from the other room, tossing back her covers and scrambling out of the bed, throwing open her door and running down the hall to the second bedroom.

"Cramp." John's face was agonised, and even in the small amount of light from the hall, she could see the muscles of his leg were contracted tightly. She crossed the room and began to knead the muscles, working them as she searched for the knot that would be centre of the cramp. John lay back, sweat covering his face. Neither arm was strong enough to have helped, and he'd held onto the pain for five minutes before it got so bad that he'd had to call out.

Kate's fingers found the knot and began to work it out, kneading and pushing the big muscles of the thigh until they started to loosen, to extend again. She moved down, and gripped the ball of his foot, flexing it back and forth until he could do it himself.

"Thanks." He closed his eyes as the pain vanished, leaving only the aftermath of its memory.

"Can you get back to sleep?" She pulled the covers back over him, straightening them.

"I think so."

"Alright." She watched him for a moment longer, then turned away, closing the door behind her and walking back to her room. In her own bed again, she closed her eyes and tried to regain sleep, forcing back the images that crowded her mind.

* * *

_**December 27, 1989.**_

Kate sat in the staff room, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She'd gotten about an hour's sleep after going back to bed, her mind and body allying against her. She had to pull herself together, she thought. She was behaving like a fourteen year old with a crush. Which it was probably was. The thought didn't make her feel any better.

She decided it would be easier all round tonight if she just ordered in. Pizza, a glass of wine and some quiet music and an early night would probably solve most of her problems. She stood up and went to her locker, retrieved her purse and walked out.

John heard the sound of the key in the lock and shifted slightly on the couch. He could move his left arm with reasonable flexibility today, the right was sore, but responding a lot more than it had even yesterday. He'd managed to have a half-shower, and had been able to put a clean shirt on by himself.

"I thought we'd get something delivered for dinner tonight, if you don't mind?" Kate said as she walked into the living room, tossing her keys and purse onto the dining table.

"Sounds fine."

"What do you feel like?" Kate picked up the half dozen menus from the fridge door and brought them over to the couch, handing them to him. He flicked through them and looked up at her.

"Uh … pizza would be good." He glanced at the half-full bottle of red on the counter in the kitchen. "Could finish up the red with that?"

She smiled slightly, and nodded. "I'll order it now." She walked to the phone and rang in the order, rolling her shoulders slightly.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked, stopping beside the couch. "I'm just going to have a shower."

"No, thanks, I'm good." John shut out the image that had appeared in his mind, and smiled.

Kate nodded and walked down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door and stripping off. Turning the taps on, she took the clips from her hair and let it fall. She put her hand under the water, and stepped in, instantly feeling better as the hot water soaked her, pummelling and heating her tense and tired muscles.

She had no idea what she was doing, really. He'd been so uncomfortable the previous evening that it made heat rise in her face even now. Just calm down and get a grip, she told herself. It'll fade away. Any emotion that's not reciprocated always fades away, you know that.

She washed her hair, and rinsed it, and turned off the taps, feeling marginally better and a lot more together.

The pizza arrived as she came out of the bedroom, hair clean and dry, in fresh clothes, the tiredness having receded to the middle distance. She grabbed her wallet and opened the door, taking the box and handing over the money.

"Keep the change." She smiled at the delivery boy and closed the door. Walking into the living room, she could hear soft music playing, and she looked over at the stereo.

"Uh … I raided your collection," John said from the couch. "You've got some great albums."

"Thanks, you made a good choice." Putting the pizza on the dining table, she got out plates and flatware, looking around for the bottle of red. She glanced back at John, and saw the bottle on the low table, two glasses already filled and waiting.

"You must be getting around a bit better today."

"Yeah, got a better range of movement today. And the bruises seem to be fading." He stood up and brought her glass over, setting it on the table before going back for his own.

He sat down and watched her as she lifted the slices onto the plates. He hadn't seen her with her hair loose before. It was longer than he'd thought, with a natural twist, the colour of pale honey underneath, wheaten streaks through it.

"This wine is very good," he said, taking another sip. Kate looked up at him and smiled.

"It's my brother's. He has a small vineyard in northern California. He sends me all his untried blends to see if I'll like them," she leaned forward and said conspiratorially. "Apparently my taste is very representative of the public's."

"That doesn't necessarily sound like a compliment." John raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's not," she confirmed with a disparaging smile. "He _is_ my brother, after all. But it does mean that I usually have some very good wines here."

"Well, give him my compliments," John said, finishing his glass.

Kate watched him from under her lashes as she ate, the nurse in her noting that his colour was better today, and the woman glad that the discomfort of last night had gone – at least for the moment. He'd put on a mix of blues and bluegrass, and the music was melancholy, yet alive, rich with passion. Between the warm, spicy wine and the music, she felt her herself stirred, each moment discrete and separate as she looked at him.

It was probably all on her side, she thought, listening to him talk about his Marine days. And he was complicated, even from the short time they'd spent together, she'd understood that much.

"I was lucky," he was saying, and she forced herself to nod, taking a breath and doing her best to ignore the flush of heat that had to be due to the wine, the music, the ease of the conversation.

"Maybe there was a reason for that," she said, not sure where the thought had come from.

John didn't respond to that, his gaze turning away but not before she saw his expression harden.

"Maybe there was," he agreed a moment later, looking back at her. "So, how 'bout the skeletons in your closet, Kate?"

She breathed a sigh of relief at the change in his tone, smiling at him as he lifted a brow questioningly.

"Oh, you know, there's the murdered husband and the secret insurance policy, nothing much," she said, picking up her glass and gulping a mouthful.

He grinned at her and the warmth of that smile made her wonder again if she had the faintest idea of what she doing.

* * *

Two hours later, Kate gestured to the couch and got up. "Let's look at your injuries."

John was sitting on the couch when she returned from the bathroom, her hands full of sterilised packs.

"I'll take the stitches out now." Kate looked down at the packs of dressings and picking one up. "Can you manage your shirt?"

John looked down at it. He'd gotten it on, surely he could it off again. "Yeah, I think so. If you can undo the sling."

She stood up, going around the back of the couch to reach the tabs this time, sliding it down under his arm. He undid the buttons one handed, wriggling out of the left sleeve, and easing it down over the right arm.

"Not bad." Kate smiled. "That's a pretty significant improvement over last night."

He nodded, feeling a fine sweat down the back of his neck from the strain of moving so carefully, but there'd been no bolts of pain, and the ribcage had lifted with his arm without protesting this time.

Kate shifted closer to him, easing off the tape that held the dressing over his ribs. The swelling had gone, the bruises all in various shades of green and yellow now. She lifted the end of each stitch gently with the tweezers and cut them, tugging carefully to pull the thread out. John held his breath, waiting for the pain, but it didn't come. The wound edges had sealed together, and the flesh was only slightly puckered where each stitch had pulled it together.

She looked at him dryly as she cut the last one. "Inhale. Anyone would think you didn't trust me."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yes, ma'am."

He looked down again as she felt around the wound with her fingertips. "Any sore spots there?"

He shook his head. "No, it all feels the same. It's tender, not sore."

"That's good." She opened an alcohol swab and cleaned along the scar, then put a clean dressing over it, taping it down.

He turned a little on the couch, something he couldn't do yesterday, so that she could reach his shoulder more comfortably. As the stitches were cut and pulled free, he was surprised to find that even there, tenderness had replaced the deep ache of the cut, and the bruising had become multi-hued instead of a solid deep blue.

Kate supported his elbow and very slowly extended his arm. "Tell me when it hurts."

She looked up at him when the arm was straight. "That doesn't hurt?"

"No. It feels a bit tight, higher up, but that's all."

She eased it back to perpendicular to the upper arm again, and told him to hold it there, cleaned the scar and taped on the new dressing, her eyes running over his chest and stomach. "Bruising is disappearing pretty fast."

She raised her eyes to his, and as they met, felt the shock through her nerves again, her breath catching in her throat, her heart accelerating. For a long moment, they didn't move, didn't breathe. Then Kate looked down, and saw his pulse beating fast in the hollow between the collarbones. She looked into his eyes again, this time seeing the same mix of desire and uncertainty that she knew was in hers.

"Kate …" he said softly, "You have to know, I can't … this wouldn't be anything … permanent."

She looked away, closing her eyes, knowing what he meant, knowing what he was telling her, trying to decide if she could live with that … or not.

John waited. It was her choice, her decision to make. He wanted her, not knowing why, not knowing how this was different from the women he'd been with over the past few years, perhaps because then he hadn't looked for them, they'd sought him out … but the woman in front of him … his breath came light and shallow, lightning crawled along his nerve endings when she came close to him, his heartbeat thudded inside his chest, and he waited.

Kate thought about the men she'd dated, the past couple of years, nice enough, nothing special, not one who'd been capable of igniting her desire by looking into her eyes, as if he could see inside of her, see who she was and what she wanted.

Opening her eyes, she turned to look at him. "I understand."

He lifted his hand, his fingers touching her cheek, slipping through her hair. The touch, a gentle caress, sent a shiver through her, set off a resonance that spread through her body as if she were a tuning fork, or a crystal cup, struck once, the reverberation lasting. She felt his fingers curve around her neck, drawing her closer. The touch of his mouth felt deeply intimate to her, not a kiss but a seduction, and she moaned softly in her throat as it deepened, as he demanded more.

That small soft moan went straight through John to his core. A tiny expression of need, of pleasure, it set off multiple reactions through him, turning simple desire into an aching torment. His hand slid from her neck, following the graceful curve of her back, feeling the brush of her hair over his knuckles and wrist, until he reached her waist. His fingertips found the edge of her top, and his hand slipped under it, stroking the soft warmth of her skin. He felt the shudder that ran through her body, echoing in his own.

"Kate …" he breathed against her mouth "We need to move."

She looked at him, trying to think what he could mean, before her thoughts cleared enough to understand. "Yeah, good idea."

Standing a little unsteadily, hoping her legs would support her because they didn't feel all that supportive right this minute, she looked up at him as he got to his feet.

"Are you sure about those?" She looked at the bright clean dressings on his ribs and shoulder.

He smiled at her, a slow, lazy smile, eyes half-closed, that made her heart stutter against her ribs. "Well, we might have to take it slow."

His voice was deep and soft, black velvet against her mind, and she turned for the hallway, breathing deeply but feeling as if she wasn't getting enough oxygen anyway.

* * *

In the bedroom, Kate turned on the small lamp near the window and threw back the covers, her skin hot and tingling in anticipation.

John stood beside the bed, his face half-shadowed, waiting until she came back to him. He bent to kiss her, his hand tangling in her hair, and she let her hands slide lightly down his chest and stomach, fingers clumsy as they searched for the button and zip of his jeans.

"Lie back," she whispered to him, following him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He let himself fall and she supported herself on her arms as she leaned over him, careful not let her weight touch his chest or shoulder, their kiss hungrier for the awareness of those injuries.

Sitting up, she pulled off the soft top, and dragged off her long pants, sliding a slender leg over his hips as she leaned forward again, her lips parting slightly as they met his. She couldn't remember ever being as aroused as she was right here, right now, her body aching.

His hand found her hip, fingers spreading out as he moved it up to follow the curve of her breast, rubbing his palm against thin silk of her bra, against the hard peak of her nipple. He felt her thighs tighten against him, the sudden indrawn breath against his lips, opened his eyes, watching hers darken. She leaned back and unhooked the bra, sliding the straps from her shoulders and tossing it behind her.

With no possibility of athleticism, they explored each other inch by inch, slowly, stroking, kissing, tasting each other. The sweet ache built and flowed through their bodies, until the ache came close to anguish, and touch came close to torment. Neither had known love in precisely this way; intimate yet only in a physical sense, the agony of being apart driven by their unwillingness to stop what they doing in order to begin the final act, desire that was so intense it felt as if they were dying, a little, with each moment.

Kate kneeled above him, legs to either side of his hips, her senses overloaded with the pleasure he was creating. She could feel him, feel the involuntary spasms of his muscles against her skin where they touched, feel him slicked with her moisture. She felt his hand between her legs, and she looked down at him, as she lifted herself higher, then came down, feeling him enter her, feeling him fill her. John looked back at her, his mouth open as she enveloped him, her tight, white heat surrounding him. He dragged in a shaky breath, and felt it rush out of him as she moved on him, rocking him, riding him, and he gave himself up to the whirlwind of feeling, of sense and sensation.

* * *

He woke late, bright sunshine edging the curtains drawn over the windows. He knew without looking that Kate had gone, her work day starting much earlier. The silence in the apartment was complete, and he felt a moment's regret he hadn't woken earlier, hadn't seen her sleeping next to him.

Lying still for a moment, he was expecting pain, expecting the backlash from the night's exertions, but when he moved and stretched a little, there was no pain, just the slight ache of muscles used. His sleep had been deep, undisturbed, no nightmares, nothing but a wrung out satiation.

Sitting up, he moved his shoulder cautiously. Instead of the flash of pain, there was only soreness, a general ache. He rested his hand at the edge of the bed, tempted to test if it could hold his weight. He decided against trying, maybe tomorrow. He leaned the other way, and felt little more than a stiffness over the ribs as his weight rested on his hand, his arm. He stood, and walked to the bathroom, feeling the ache in his legs, in the muscles of his lower back, with a slight grin.

* * *

_Four days._

John wondered at the difference between being with this woman, with Kate, and the others since Mary. He realised that it was at least partly that he knew a little about her, and knowing, cared about her. For the first time since Mary, he was paying attention to a woman's needs, to her pleasure, before his own, and in doing so, his pleasure increased by an order of magnitude. Watching her face, feeling the ripples through her body, his desire grew proportionately and so did the intensity of his release. Constrained initially by his injuries, he found that as he healed, he still wanted that slow exploration, where time was meaningless and touch and taste and sound and sight and smell took over, wanted it more. He could get lost in the sensory input, and it was a good place to lose his way.

On Friday evening, John called Ellen. Bill answered, and he immediately offered to come and get him. Taking the train, he would be there around midday Saturday. John hung up, his feelings mixed. He'd told her it was temporary. It still was, still had to be. He hadn't expected the sharp sense of loss though.

* * *

_Four nights._

Kate found herself smiling at everyone. She marvelled at how thinking of his wrist, a strong straight wrist, the fine dark hair that ran along the back of it, the tendons standing out, the swell of the muscle above it, could send a shivery feeling straight through her, hardening her nipples, flushing her with heat. She felt that flush every night as she put her key into the lock and turned it. She felt it as she stood at the kitchen bench, preparing something for them to eat. She felt it when he touched her, or just looked at her, but especially when he smiled at her, that slow smile, the one that darkened his eyes.

She was brisk and efficient at the hospital, working hard to make the time go by faster. Her friends and co-workers watched her curiously, wondering at the change in her, wondering about the secret she clearly had, but was not telling. She had pushed the knowledge that he would leave far away, and she existed in the now, in this moment.

* * *

_**January 2, 1990.**_

He told her when she got back to the apartment from the hospital. He saw her face tighten as she nodded, and she turned away abruptly, walking down the hall to the bedroom to get changed.

When she came back out to the living room, she smiled at him, her face smooth, her eyes calm, a little distant. She talked of her day, and asked him about his. She laughed, and smiled, danced with him when he put on some slow music and held out his hand to her, her cheek against his chest, her arms wrapped around him, she cleared the table and did the dishes, and followed him to the bedroom when he took her hand, but he could see far back in her eyes that she was holding something back.

It was the last time, and he could feel that knowledge in everything he did, making it more important to remember everything, to not think about time or tomorrow, just savour the moments, and keep them, strung like pearls on a necklace, for the time when he could take them out and look at them and remember this. He watched her, watched her face and her body, and for the first time, he could feel her resistance to him, holding herself away from him, and he pushed past it, pushed her until she surrendered, not fighting her desire, not fighting against the pleasure, but accepting it again, accepting him again. He felt her shaking and saw her tears slipping from her eyes as she arched up against him, her hips driving into his, forcing him deeper, until her muscles were rippling around him and he couldn't hold on any longer. They lay locked together and his kissed the tears from her cheeks, wanting her to open her eyes but knowing he had forfeited the right to ask her for that.

* * *

_**January 3, 1990.**_

Kate stood by door. She told herself that she'd gone into this open-eyed, knowing that it would be finite, knowing he would leave. It didn't stop the pain that was seeping through her, spreading out in concentric ripples from her heart. It didn't stop the restlessness in her body, the certainty that no one would touch her in that way again, that no one could. Her chest felt tight and her throat was aching.

John put his duffle bag next to the door and stood in front of her. He put his hand under her chin, lifting her face to his.

"I'm sorry, Kate."

That drew a flash from her eyes. "I'm not. I don't regret a second."

He smiled sadly at her. "No, no regrets." He put his arms around her, pulling her close to him, resting his cheek against her hair. He felt her arms creep around him, then tighten, felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Raising his head, his arms tightened around her and he lifted her slightly, his mouth covering hers in a long, deep kiss.

When he put her down, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to her.

"This is my cell number. If you need anything, call."

_I need you to stay with me_, her mind cried out to him, but she kept her lips closed, nodding as she tucked the number into the pocket of her jeans.

Turning away, he reached down to pick up the duffle and open the door. For a moment, she wanted to reach out, to grab him and hold him and never let go. The impulse was so strong she had to close her eyes to shut it out. When she opened them again, he'd gone.

* * *

_**February 2, 1990**_

"Congratulations, I guess?" Mia pushed the report across the desk to Kate, her expression somewhere between hopeful and concerned.

Kate looked at the file, opening it and reading the results. She closed it again, and sat back in the chair, turning her head to look out the window.

"Do you … uh …want to talk to the father?"

"No," Kate said absently, turning her head to look back at her friend. _It couldn't be permanent_, he'd said. _If you need anything, call_, he'd told her. Between the two memories there was her knowledge that he would never cease to love his wife, that his sons were more important to him than anything else in the world, that what they'd had, and what she had now, was all she could ever hope to get from him.

"No," she repeated, shaking her head. "I couldn't find him if I tried."

"Do you want to keep the baby, Kate?" Mia's brow wrinkled slightly as she tried to fathom what was going on behind the slightly dreamy expression on Kate's face.

"Oh, yes." Kate smiled. "Definitely."

* * *

_Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a teardrop._

_~ Anonymous_


	10. Chapter 10 Firsts

**Chapter 10 Firsts**

* * *

_There is only one thing more painful than learning from experience, and that is not learning from experience. ~Laurence J. Peter_

* * *

_**1991. Why, Arizona.**_

Even in the early morning, the sun was strong, beating down on the boys as they walked along the dusty road's shoulder, the air still and dry. Ahead of them, the land humped up, curving away as it followed the mostly dry riverbed, the vegetation changing where water ran and pooled. A scraggly line of saplings and twisted trees showed the trail head, leading between them and the rise of the broken rock wall.

Dean ran his hands along the smooth wooden stock of the gun he carried and over the shortened barrels. He'd made it – well, modified it – last year, just before Christmas, and it was the best thing he owned.

"Come on, Sam!" he yelled impatiently, looking back down the trail. Sam appeared a second later from around the bend, carrying his .22 and a satchel of ammunition.

"Where are we going?" He looked around as he came up to his brother.

"Just a bit further on."

They walked away from the river, the trail meandering through a scraggly line of stunted trees and came out into an open clearing, bounded on three sides by more trees, and on the fourth by the sheer rise of a rock wall.

Dean looked at the rock wall with satisfaction; it would be a good place to practice against. Setting up a dozen rocks along a ledge, Dean took the .22 first and knocked them all off, then Sam practiced. Neither boy noticed the figure under the trees, watching them.

"The rocks aren't much good for target shooting with this," Dean said as he broke the shotgun and loaded it. He looked around for something else. Sam hunkered down by the edge of the wall as he saw small heaps of soft ochre rock, picking up a large chunk. He walked to the wall and drew a line experimentally, smiling a little as the crumbling rock left a distinct lighter-coloured outline against the wall. Drawing a rough outline of a man against the face, he looked back over his shoulder and called out, "Dean! What about this?"

Dean looked up, eyes widening as he looked at the target. He grinned. "Awesome!"

He waited for Sam to get behind him. The boom of the gun was lessened by the short length of the barrel, and the older boy's aim kept the shot well within the outline. He reloaded and handed it to Sam, taking turns until the shells he'd brought ran out.

When the last echoes died away, they walked over to the wall, looking at the spread critically.

"Well, you two sure know how to kill rocks."

The light voice from behind startled them both. They spun around, Sam keeping the barrel down against his instinct.

"Yeah, well we're not allowed to practise on annoying people," Dean retorted, eyes narrowed as he took in the details of the girl standing a few feet away. She was as skinny as a rake, dressed in faded jeans and an embroidered cream cotton top, both slightly too big for her, white-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her skin was tan, making the cornflower-blue eyes seem bigger and brighter.

"You staying at the motel?" she asked, ignoring the comment. Dean, already annoyed that she'd been able to sneak up on them, and riled at the comment about the rocks, stiffened at the question.

"What's it to you?"

"Just asking. You're not from round here, and I'da known if you moved in." She shrugged carelessly. "How come you ain't in school?"

"How come you're not in school?" Sam asked, feeling his brother's belligerence.

"Home sick." She smiled.

"Yeah, you don't look sick to me," Dean sniffed.

"Not that kind of sick." She looked up, toward the sun, shading her eyes and squinting slightly. "What about you?"

"None of your business." He turned and stalked back to their gear.

"Where are you from?" Sam followed his brother more slowly.

"My daddy's got a ranch, over there." She pointed vaguely west. "We run cattle and horses."

"Can we see it?" he asked, thinking it would be more fun than hanging around with his brother, cleaning the guns all day.

She shook her head. "Nope. Not allowed to have visitors that Daddy doesn't know."

"Oh." Sam's shoulders slumped. "You got brothers or sisters?"

"Four sisters." She looked ahead at Dean, who was shoving the loose shells back in the bag. "He your brother?"

"Yeah." Sam followed her glance, lowering his voice a little. "He's just angry 'cos he didn't hear you coming. He doesn't really like surprises."

"Oh." She looked sideways at Sam. "Where your parents at?"

"Our dad is … doing his job, he's a salesman. Our mom died a long time ago."

"Sammy, shut it, she doesn't need to know our life history." Dean turned back to them, scowling at his brother.

"I wasn't telling her everything," Sam said mildly, picking up the satchel and slinging the strap over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well you talk too much." Dean huffed out an impatient exhale, glancing at the girl. "We gotta go."

She chewed the inside of her cheek. "Yeah? I'm sorry for startling you. I didn't mean to. Not much to do when everyone else is at school …"

Dean looked down at the ground, his anger dissolving at the apology and the wistful tone in her voice. "Mmm… okay, but we do have a lot to do -"

"No, we don't," Sam objected, looking back to the girl. "Do you know any good places to explore around here?"

Dean watched her expression change, lightening a little with hope. There wasn't much to do in the tiny town since they weren't going to be here long enough to go to school. The motel was ancient, the tv filled with static and the days could drag on. He knew Sammy was bored but he didn't want to get involved with the locals either.

"There's lots of stuff we can do, with three," Hannah was saying.

"What's your name?" Sam asked. "I'm Sam, this is Dean."

"Hannah," she told him, holding out her hand to Sam. "I'm real pleased to meet you, Sam."

"Sam …" Dean frowned at him. "We've got chores to do before Dad gets back."

"Not that much," Sam said dismissively, turning back to Hannah. "What kind of stuff?"

"Uh … we could track animals, or go to the river?" She thought about it quickly. "There's an old mine, but that's quite a ways away."

"We haven't done any tracking since Bobby's … it would be good practise, Dean," Sam said, turning to look at his brother. Anything related to hunting would be okay with his older brother, he knew. And anything would be more fun than sitting in the room, watching crap television and cleaning the guns.

Dean exhaled, loudly. "Oh, alright. But just for an hour, Sammy. Dad'll be angry if we don't have everything ready when he gets back." He gave his little brother a meaningful look. Sam nodded.

"Sure." He turned back to Hannah. "Where do we start?"

"Down by the river, we can track from where they drink back to where they live?" She looked from one to the other.

"Okay." Dean picked up the guns and nodded. It couldn't hurt to spend a bit of time on something useful. There would be a big difference between following tracks in the soft marsh country around Bobby's and here, in the desert, over sand and rock.

* * *

"What's that one?" Sam whispered as they crouched in the shrubs along the river's edge.

"Coyote." Hannah leaned over, brushing the spoor lightly with her fingers. She looked along the line of tracks. "It'll be up in the hills somewhere."

"What's this?" Dean looked down at the strange marks in the sand. Hannah walked over, and crouched next to him.

"Snake. Sidewinder," she said, glancing sideways at him. Sam walked over to them and looked down.

"You mean a rattlesnake?" He looked around at the scrubby grasses surrounding them.

"Yeah. Those ridges are where it pushes against the sand to move forward." She ran her fingertips lightly over the raised ridges. "It'll be long gone now, up into the rocks, looking for a place to keep cool. But they have to drink too."

"At least animals leave tracks," Dean said under his breath. Hannah looked at him, her brows rising.

"Everything leaves tracks, except birds."

He opened his mouth then closed it again, shaking his head. "Sure, yeah, that's what I meant."

Sam snorted and looked away. "What about these?" He looked down to the ground again.

"Rock squirrel." Hannah glanced over. "Do you want to track those?"

"Sure." Dean stood quickly. He didn't like having things to do hanging over his head. The sooner they tracked the squirrel and got on with what Dad had told them to do, the better he'd like it.

"You want to try first, Sam?" Hannah pointed in the direction the squirrel had gone. Sam nodded, and followed the tracks, clear in the soft sand and dirt that made up the river bank. He lost them once they got away from the river, the soil becoming gravelly and strewn with small rocks. He looked at Hannah in frustration.

"How am I supposed to follow it now?"

She grinned at him. "Boy, you're impatient. That's no good for tracking."

Crouching where the last clear toe print was, she looked around at the ground surrounding her. "Look around, look for bent grass, or a rock that's been knocked from elsewhere." She pointed to both. "Most creatures move in a pretty straight line from where they've been to where they're going, so you're really looking for clues, to make sure you're still on the same trail."

She duckwalked a few feet along the line the squirrel's tracks had made from the river, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't moved too far left or right from the original direction. Studying the ground again, she pointed to the clear impression of a paw, in a patch of sand between two larger rocks. "See?"

Sam nodded, and looked ahead, spotting a patch of flattened grass. He moved to it, and looked ahead again, this time spotting a pile of the animal's scat on another rock. He looked back to Hannah. She nodded encouragingly.

"Where'd you learn how to track like this?" Dean asked her, curiosity overcoming his animosity.

"My daddy was a trapper for a long time, up north, before he got the ranch. He can track a snake across bare rock. He used to teach me, before my mama died. Then he got too busy." She followed Sam's slow progress along the squirrel's trail with her eyes, her explanation fast and matter-of-fact.

Sam reached an open patch of gravel and stood, unable to see any further clues. Hannah and Dean came up behind him, looking across the patch.

"What do you think you should do?" she asked Sam, putting her hands on her hips and looking at him with a faintly challenging air.

Sam looked back the way they'd come, and then forward again. "Look around on the same line for more clues?"

She nodded, and walked across the gravel patch, stopping where it started to show sand and soil again. She looked down and let her eyes travel slowly along the edge. "This squirrel's smart," she said after a moment. "Changed direction on the gravel. We have to spread out, cast around both sides."

Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged. They turned and walked along the edges of the patch, looking for signs where the squirrel had left the gravel.

"Here, I think," Dean said, crouching and reaching out to touch a flattened clump of grass lightly. Hannah and Sam looked over his shoulder.

"Yep, that's it," Hannah said certainly.

Sam looked back to where the rabbit had entered the gravel, and then up to the flattened clump. He moved ahead along that line slowly, finding more clues in rocks that had been overturned, a patch of sand that had been sprayed over some rocks by the backward flick of a hindleg, some longer green grass that had clearly been nibbled on.

"Is this it?" He stopped and looked back at them, pointing ahead to a triangular crevice between two rocks. Hannah climbed up beside him, and smiled.

"Sure is. Good tracking."

Sam glanced back at Dean, grinning. "Told you it would be good practise."

Dean nodded and climbed past them, standing on a rock and looking around. They'd gained maybe two hundred feet, tracking the squirrel and he could see the line of the mostly-dry river bed, and beyond it, the town. He looked down at his shadow, almost directly underneath him now.

"We gotta go, Sam," he said. "It's almost noon."

Sam nodded reluctantly, shrugging at Hannah. "Sorry, but we'd better go."

"Okay." Hannah turned and started to pick her way down the hillside.

Dean and Sam followed her, feeling the heat of the rocks rising up to them as they walked. By the time they'd reached the bottom and were close to the river, they were both sweating with the heat. Where it ran around the edge of the town, the river held water, shallow and flowing, deeper pools shaded by the trees that had sprung up along both banks. Hannah stopped next to an open stretch of bank, under the wide canopy of a willow. She pointed down the trail.

"You can get back to the motel quicker if you just follow that and turn at the bridge," she said.

"What are you going to do?" Dean looked at her curiously.

"I'm boiling, I'm going to have a swim before I go home." She pulled off her top, jeans, boots and socks, and hung them on the branch, leaving a thin singlet and her underpants on as she walked into the shallow water, wading out to the middle and diving into a deeper section.

Sam looked longingly at the water. Hannah's head appeared out in the middle of the river, her pale hair slicked and darkened like a seal's, eyes closed as she tipped her head back and floated.

"Just a quick swim." Sam looked at his brother. "Just to get cool again."

Dean looked at the running water, at the girl swimming, feeling his sweat crawl down his back.

"Okay, but just five minutes, alright? Just to cool off."

Sam nodded, and they dumped their stuff on the ground, pulling off shirts and jeans, boots and socks as fast as they could. Dean hit the water first, his eyes closing in bliss as the cold river water sucked the heat from his body, sluicing the sweat from his skin and hair. Sam dived in beside him, shivering a little at the abrupt change in temperature, but finding that his skin got used to the cold after a few moments.

"Thought you had to go home?" Hannah swam up to them.

"Just cooling off first," Dean said firmly, looking at Sam. Sam nodded readily.

She grinned and ducked under the water, swimming over to the other side.

He watched her head come up again thirty feet away, a little downstream. The flow wasn't very strong, it was a wide and rather shallow river, but it was enough to thoroughly rid them of the heat.

"Come on, Sam," he called to his brother. "We're cool."

He waded out of the flow, turning around in the shallows and waiting for Sam to swim back. Under the shade of the tree, and with the water evaporating slowly from their skin, it was pleasantly cool and when Sam splashed back up to the bank, they were able to get dressed without overheating again.

Hannah came out as well, sitting on a branch that dipped low to put on her socks and boots, her clothes darkening with the water that soaked through from her skin.

"You wanna go for another swim this afternoon?" She looked at them. "By about three, it'll be really hot."

Dean pulled on his boots over the wet socks, wondering how long it would take them to dry out on the walk back.

"Yeah, maybe, if we're done with everything." He glanced at his brother, then back at her. "If we're here, then we're here, if not, you'll know we couldn't make it."

"Sure."

They walked along trail that followed the river, wet socks squelching slightly in their boots.

Sam walked beside Hannah, asking her questions about the town, school, and her ranch. Dean walked behind them, carrying the unloaded .22 and the shotgun, thinking of what they needed to do back at the motel, and wondering if they could finish it in time to come back for another swim later on. He thought they probably could. Their father had said that he would be back tomorrow night, maybe the next day at the latest. He was looking for a cursed object, he'd told Dean, in an old mining camp, up toward Ajo.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" He heard Sam ask, and his attention was back on his brother.

"Sam …"

Sam looked back over his shoulder, frowning at the warning in Dean's voice. "I'm just asking."

"Sure. This town's got lots of ghosts," Hannah told them, slowing to look back at Dean.

"It does?"

"Yeah, the mine – the one I told you about, was a real big one, a long time ago. Apparently a few men got killed there by a landslide one time, and they had to shut it down, but the ghosts still haunt the hills."

Sam looked back at Dean, eyebrows raised. Dean rolled his eyes. Every town had stories like that, didn't mean they were true.

"So have a lot of people seen them?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, last year some people died, they went camping in the hills near the mine, and sheriff found them all torn up the next day," Hannah said, her tone surprisingly pragmatic. "Happened a few years before that as well. No one goes near there at night anymore. It's supposed to be okay in the day time."

Dean frowned. That was starting to sound more like what Dad said about hauntings and vengeful spirits. There was one way to be sure about it, though.

"Hey, Hannah, town got a library, or newspaper?" he asked, lengthening his stride a little to catch them up. She glanced at him as he came up beside her, nodding.

Dean looked at Sam, his face carefully expressionless. "We'll have a look later, alright?"

Hannah stopped and pointed to the left. "That's your bridge. I go this way." She glanced along the gravel road to the right. "See you later."

Dean and Sam watched her walking up the road for a moment, then they turned and crossed the bridge, seeing the motel as they walked over the rise that led down to it.

"You think it's a real haunting?" Sam looked at his brother.

"Only one way to tell for sure." Dean thought about what Dad had said, trying to remember all the details. "First thing is we find out if there's any record of it. Should be in the paper, or in the town records in the library."

"When did Dad say he'd be home?"

"Tomorrow night, maybe the next morning. He wasn't sure," Dean hedged, turning to look at Sam. "You think we should tell him about it?"

"Well, he'd want to know, right?"

Dean nodded. He'd been thinking that if they could find out something, he could probably handle it himself. If Hannah could show him where the mine was. He'd been on three ghost hunts with Dad, he knew the drill. He pushed the thought aside impatiently. He didn't even know what the deal was, and his father had been clear that the first thing was to figure out what you were dealing with.

* * *

They made sandwiches for lunch, then took an hour and a half to break down the guns Dad had left with them and clean them all. Dean went through twice as many as Sam in the same time, but he'd been doing it for years, Sam had only just started to learn last year.

He checked the bags, making sure everything was there, and the guns were put away properly. Then he looked up at the clock. Quarter to three. Hannah hadn't been wrong about the heat. The room's air-conditioning unit was ancient and struggling with the slowly increasing temperature. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back.

"Still want to meet Hannah at the river and have another swim?" He looked over at Sam. His brother grinned.

"Alright, we've done everything we were supposed to, we can have some fun." He grinned back, feeling the weight of responsibility lift. He was used to being responsible for the chores and Sam; it wasn't that he hated those jobs or anything, just that once everything he had to do was done, he could do what he liked, instead of worrying about it all the time.

They reached the river ten minutes later and saw Hannah already there, swimming up and down the same stretch. She waved when she saw them and started swimming for the bank.

"Do you know what time it is?" she called out. Sam shrugged.

"About three." Dean put his t-shirt and jeans over the branch. "Why?"

"I have to be at home at four." She swam back out and dived under the water. Sam waded out, following her to the deeper pool beyond the centre of the river and dove under, emerging a few feet further out with his wet hair hanging over his face.

The water was cold and clear, so refreshing after the enervating walk from the motel that he couldn't get enough of it, diving to the gravelly bottom and staying under as long as he could. It was seasonal, Hannah'd told them earlier; by August only the deepest pools would still be there, the rest dry sand and gravel banks. An unseasonally rainy spring had kept much of the country greener than it usually was, and kept the river flowing.

"We're going to the library tomorrow to look up the history on those ghosts," Sam said, looking at Hannah as he trod water in the deep pool. "Do you want to come?"

"Can't, I've got chores tomorrow morning." She floated on her back, kicking slightly. "What do you want to look up?"

"Just who the men were, when it happened, that sort of thing."

"Why?"

"It's interesting," Sam said, biting off his next comment as he realised that he was getting way to close to what his brother termed 'dangerous ground'.

Dean floated downriver from them, eyes closed, letting the water's flow carry him. He wondered how much of what Hannah'd told them earlier was true. If people had died here, there'd be records of it, he told himself, rolling over and swimming slowly back upstream, luxuriating in the contrast between the cold water surrounding him and the hot sunshine on his hair. He could see his brother and the girl, still in the deep pool opposite the big willow.

He didn't make friends that easily, too aware that the slightest slip suggesting anything about their lives could be a mistake that wouldn't be easy to fix. When they had to go to school, he'd learned to make acquaintances … just enough to seem like he was fitting in, not so much that anyone knew where they lived. Sammy was the opposite, his brother was sociable and made friends easily, somehow managing to get close to people without telling them all that much.

Glancing up at the sun's position in the sky, Hannah turned and started swimming for the bank. "I gotta go," she called back to him when she reached the shallows. "I'll be here tomorrow after lunch."

Sam nodded and waved as she ran up the bank and started to get dressed, throwing her clothes on much more quickly than she'd done earlier. She ran up trail and disappeared.

Dean looked around when he reached Sam. "What happened to Hannah?"

"She had to go." Sam looked up at the sun. "Do you think it's near four o'clock yet?"

Dean looked up as well. "Past four, I think. We should get going too. What do you want for dinner?"

Sam rolled over in the water and started back to the bank. "Not much of a choice."

"Pizza it is then." Dean grinned and swam faster to the bank, overtaking his little brother.

* * *

The next morning was Saturday, and they walked to the library and waited until it opened.

"Dean," Sam whispered across the table in the dim, hot room, filled with the scent of dry paper and lemon-scented furniture polish. "Look at this."

Dean looked around but there was no else near them. He got up and walked around the long reading table, sitting down next to his brother.

The newspaper was dated 1922. Dean read through the article. As Hannah had said, the Red Lightning mine was closed down after four men were trapped in a landslide inside the tunnels. Although the article did not directly blame the company for the deaths, it seemed to imply that the owner of the mine had just left them there, without even trying to save them.

Dean looked up at Sam. "Definitely ghosts." He frowned at the newspaper suddenly.

"If they couldn't get out, how can anyone get in to burn the remains?"

Sam shrugged. "That's Dad's problem."

Dean glanced at him, then got up. He walked to the librarian's desk, waiting until the middle-aged lady turned to look enquiringly at him. "Excuse me, but I'm interested in the old copper mines in the area, for a school project. Is there any stuff about them here …" He glanced down at the name plate on the desk, "Mrs Colton?"

Mrs Colton looked at him over her glasses, her expression warming slightly at his interest. "We've got all the plans for the mines in the archives, letters of incorporation, the lot. What exactly are you looking for?"

"The plans," he said decisively.

She scribbled a note on a slip of paper and handed it to him. "Go and see Mr Castles – he's over there." She pointed to the rear of the library. "Tell him you want the plans." Her expression firmed a little as she told him, "You have to look at them here, you know, they can't be borrowed."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, already aware that deference got a lot further than snark with most people over a certain age. She seemed to relax a little, smiling at him approvingly, and he walked around her desk to the rear of the library.

Mr Castles had a small office next to the basement stairs. He knocked on the door.

"Come in." The voice inside the office was wavery and high. Dean pushed the door open and peered in. A very old man sat behind the desk facing the door.

"Mr Castles?" He walked over to the desk and handed the old man the note. Mr Castles pushed his glasses back up his nose, and read it slowly. Dean looked at him, thinking he'd never seen anyone so old looking. He barely had any hair covering his head, which was wrinkled and spotted. His eyes were a filmy blue, the colour faded out of them. Every inch of his skin was wrinkled and sagging, as if he were getting smaller but his skin had remained the same size.

"Plans, eh? Which mine?"

"Red Lightning Mine." Dean answered, glad that the name had been included in the article. They hadn't thought to ask Hannah if she knew it.

"Stay here. I'll be right back." He got up slowly from his chair, grasping the polished hickory cane that leaned against the desk, and walked past Dean. The boy watched the old man's slow progress out of the office and sighed. Right back would be a long wait, he thought.

He was right. It took Mr Castles fifteen minutes to get down to the basement, retrieve the plans and return to the office. He was yawning with boredom as he leaned against a filing cabinet when the old man re-entered the office.

"Be careful with that, son. That's the original and it's older than me," Castles said, with a stern look. Nodding, Dean took the rolled plan gently, hurrying out and pulling the door closed behind him.

"Where have you been?" Sam asked, looking up at him in annoyance. His brother was developing a bad habit of leaving him with a lot of the reading when they researched things for their father lately.

"Got the plans." Dean slid off the ribbon holding the plan, and spread it carefully across the table. "Hold the other side, Sammy."

They looked down at the mine, slowly working out which tunnel had collapsed from the details in the article. Dean looked around.

"Stay here. I'm going to get some tracing paper so that we have our own map of this place. I won't be long, okay – don't move and don't let anyone have that plan."

Sam nodded. He put a couple of books at either of the plan, to keep it from rolling up again, and bent over it, his eyes going over every inch.

* * *

Dean found the newsagent a few doors down and went in. He bought five sheets of tracing paper, a fine black pen and a fine red pen, and hurried back to the library. Sam was in exactly the same position when he came up to the table, nose almost touching the paper as he studied the tunnels and symbols.

"What's that?" Sam peered at the small circle that was over the tunnel some distance from the collapse. Dean looked at it.

"Says it's a ventilation shaft."

"Why didn't they get out that way?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head.

"I don't know. Maybe it was too small? Maybe it was too high."

"Why didn't the owner make it bigger or lower a rope down for them, then?"

Dean looked at his little brother, half amused at Sammy's problem-solving capabilities, half exasperated by the questions. He wondered how to explain about greed and stupidity.

"I guess the owner thought it wasn't worth the effort," he said eventually. "It doesn't matter. It's a way in, I'll have to go and have a look at it."

"We," Sam corrected him softly. "_We_'ll have to go."

"No, Sammy, this is … I'm just going to take a look, I don't want to put you at risk."

"If you're just going to take a look, why would I be at risk?"

Dean scowled at him. "I can't take a good look around if I'm worried about you, alright?"

"I can look after myself; you don't need to worry about me," Sam argued, a thread of anger seeping into his voice. "You were looking after me by yourself when you were eight."

"Yeah, and I'm still looking after you, so stop arguing with me."

"If you don't let me go with you, I'll tell Dad you left me by myself." Sam looked at him stubbornly.

Dean sighed. "He won't believe you. And he'll kill me if I do take you, Sam."

"No he won't. You can just tell him that you thought I'd be safer with you."

"It doesn't work that way." He looked down at the plan. "Anyway, I might not go out there at all. I might just tell Dad about it, then we'll go together and you'll have to stay in the motel."

"I can help, Dean." Sam switched to plan B smoothly as he heard his brother's impatience, his tone becoming conciliatory. "We could get everything ready for Dad together."

"No, Sammy," Dean said exasperatedly. "No. That's final."

He set the tracing paper over the mine's entrance and started to trace the plans with the black pen. The collapsed tunnel, he did in red, marking the site of the collapse clearly in red as well.

Sam sat beside him, watching silently. He had to figure out a way to convince Dean that he was needed. He was sick of always staying in the room. Just because Dad had taken Dean on a couple of ghost hunts, didn't mean that he was the boss.

"How are you going to get there?" he asked as Dean moved the books and rolled the plan up again, slipping the ribbon over the end of the roll.

"Not sure yet," Dean answered shortly, tucking the plans under his arm.

He took the plans back to Mr Castle's office, leaving it on the desk when nobody answered his knock. Sammy's impatience to be involved in at least some of what they did had been growing in the last few months. Dad still wasn't aware that Sam had read through his journal, both boys pretending that Dean had left something about a hunt out one day, and Sam had picked it up. Their father had started teaching Sammy about cleaning the weapons and practising with them when that'd happened, but had told Dean to keep the more dangerous aspects of their work from his brother. He couldn't lie to either of them very well, but he'd begun to learn to tell the minimum, hoping it would be enough.

* * *

It was noon when they left the library, going out as the librarian was closing the building for the day. Detouring to the local bar and grill, Dean picked up burgers and fries for them, and they walked back to the motel quickly, the scent of the food mouth-watering.

"You need back up," Sam said again as he scrunched the food wrappings into a tight ball and put them in the trash can.

"Don't start that again, I'm warning you, Sam." Dean looked over the plans, trying to fix the turns and dead ends in his memory. The real problem was that the plans didn't have the location of the mine, let alone the ventilation shaft, and he had no idea how to get there.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew someone who knew how to get there. He thought if they went to the river, they'd probably find Hannah somewhere around.

"Did Hannah say where her father's ranch was?" He turned and looked at his brother.

"No, not exactly." Sam looked up, figuring out Dean's thoughts easily. "If Hannah's going, then I am too."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Will you just quit that? Hannah's not going. I just need to know where the mine is."

The knock at the door surprised both of them. Sam got up hurriedly and went to the window, lifting the curtain a fraction to look obliquely out. He turned to his brother.

"It's Hannah."

"How'd she know - ?" He stood up and walked to the door, opening it and looking accusingly at the slim girl standing there. "How'd you know where we were?"

Hannah snorted disbelievingly. "Beth Halverson's mother works here and knows which rooms all the guests are in. You two don't exactly blend in." She looked past Dean into the room. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." He stepped back and let her pass, closing the door behind him. "Actually, I was hoping to see you."

Hannah turned around, her eyes widening slightly. "You were?"

Now that she was facing the light, he could see that her left cheek was badly bruised, from the temple to the jaw.

"What happened to you?" he asked, frowning as he looked at her face. Hannah lifted her hand to her cheek, turning away.

"Just … uh … ran into a door, in the dark. Last night." She turned back to him, but kept out of the light, smiling. "Why did you want to see me?"

Dean didn't particularly buy the door story, but he wasn't sure it was his business. "Where's the mine located, exactly?"

"Well, I can't tell you. I'd have to take you there." She stood by the table and looked curiously at the tracings that covered the surface.

Another one, Dean thought in frustration. "I need to go on my own. You could stay here with Sam." And argue with each other, he thought caustically. "Can you … uh, draw a map of how to get there?"

Shaking her head, she answered, "Nope. It's a long way off the new roads. Besides, you gonna walk? It's six miles, that's a lot of walking in this country."

"Yeah, well the car is temporarily unavailable, so walking is the only option."

"Not the only one." She smiled at him again and he noticed that it was only on one side. Must have hit the door hard to hurt that much. "We can ride."

"Ride what?" He didn't think bikes would be much of an improvement over walking in this heat.

"Horses, dummy."

"I can't -" he stopped, because admitting he couldn't do something wasn't something he did, at least not to wise-ass strangers. And anyway, how hard could it be?

"All right. But just to show me where the mine is. Not going inside." Again with the 'we' stuff. He wasn't going to be responsible for anyone but himself.

"Pfft. I've been inside that mine loads of times. I told you, its okay in the day time."

"You see a hole in the ground, above the mine?" Sam joined in on the conversation. He'd thought of a way to get to go along that his brother wouldn't be able to stop.

"A hole?" She frowned, turning to look at him. "What kind of a hole? You mean going all the way down inside?"

"Yeah, a ventilation shaft," Sam clarified, glancing at his brother.

"No, haven't seen anything like that, but usually I don't explore around the mine, just go in through main entrance." Her eyes narrowed suddenly as she thought about what he'd asked. "You're trying to get into the tunnel that collapsed?"

"Just want to see if there's a way in," Dean said quickly, wishing that Sam wasn't here. It was hard enough trying to think around one of them, the two together were impossible. "Not thinking about actually going in."

"Why?" She looked from Dean to Sam. "There's nothing in there – 'cept four dead bodies. Well," she corrected herself, "four skeletons now, I'd guess."

"Yeah, right. Who'd want to go in there? Not us." Dean gave a strained laugh and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water. There were times when he wanted to be grown up so badly it shook him. Now was one of those times.

"When do you want to go?"

"As soon as we can." He finished the glass and put it in the sink. "Could we get up there and back this afternoon? Before dark?"

Hannah thought about it. She'd need to get the horses in, but it wouldn't take long to ride up to the mine. She nodded, standing. "Yeah, we could go for a look in that time. I'll have to get the horses. Give me about a half an hour and I'll meet you at the gravel road opposite the bridge?"

"I'll be there." He followed her to the door, watching as she threw a leg over a battered-looking bicycle and pedalled away fast up the road. Closing it when she disappeared from sight, he turned to grab his backpack from under the bed. "Sammy, you're staying here, no arguing, no sulking."

"Okay." Sam sat on his bed, looking down at the floor. "What time will you be back?"

Dean glanced at the clock. It was only half past twelve. One o'clock to meet Hannah. He didn't know how long it would take on horseback to travel six miles, but probably not longer than an hour at most. Looking around the mine would take maybe an hour, maybe two. If they left by four o'clock at the very latest, they would still be back at the bridge well before dark, and he'd be back in the room by five thirty.

"Five thirty, I think, at the latest." He pulled out the gun bags, and transferred his shotgun and two dozen shells into the backpack, along with a four pound bag of salt and the bottle of butane. He found the spare lighter and tossed that in as well, and a long hunting knife. What else did he need? Flashlight. Maps. First aid kit. Matches, in case the lighter didn't work. He couldn't think of anything else. The bag was heavy when he finished fastening the flap and swung it onto his shoulder, but he wouldn't have to worry about that, the horse would.

"If Dad comes back early, just tell him … tell him … tell him I had a date."

"Dean, he's really going to flip out if he thinks you've gone on a hunt alone." Sam looked at him. Dean could see where his brother was going with this.

"Sammy, he wouldn't be half as mad as he would be if you came along and something happened to you. End of story."

Shrugging, Sam conceded the point. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you at five thirty then."

"Right. Keep the door locked, and if you hear anything – and I mean anything – there's a bag of salt in the cupboard - salt the door, the windows, the aircon and the vents and make a circle for yourself and stay in it. Alright?"

"Alright."

Dean nodded and went out the door, closing it firmly behind him. He shifted the pack more comfortably on his shoulders and started walking toward the bridge.

* * *

Sam grabbed his day pack and put his father's Beretta into it, along with a box of 9mm ammunition from the gun bag. He added a bag of salt and zipped it up, closed the gun bag and shoved it back under the bed, and grabbed his room key from the table. Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he opened the door and looked around. Dean was out of sight, which meant he'd have to run. He closed the door, checking that it was locked and jogged down the dirt path leading to the bridge.

* * *

Hannah was waiting when Dean crossed the bridge. She sat on a leggy sorrel mare, and held the reins of a stocky bay gelding. Both horses had large Western saddles, with breastplates and simple one-ear hackamore bridles. Dean noticed that both saddles also carried long coils of rope, tied firmly to them.

"You know how to ride?" She looked at him as he walked up to the horses. He hesitated, wondering if there was a point to lying about it, then shook his head.

"Don't matter. That's Cisco, he taught me to ride, he's as steady as they come," Hannah told him, looking at the bay.

Kicking her feet free of the stirrups, she swung her leg over and slid off her mare, dropping the reins to the ground. The sorrel mare huffed out a grassy exhale and stayed put.

Hannah walked over to Dean, taking the big stiffened leather stirrup and holding it out for him. He put his left foot into it, and half-jumped, half-pulled himself up, grabbing the horn at the front of the saddle and swinging his leg over the back.

The girl looked critically at the length of the leathers. She'd set them for her height because she was nearly as tall as he was and they looked right. His legs stretched almost straight, the heel of his foot a little lower than the toe. She handed him the split leather reins.

"Comfy?" She looked up at him. He nodded, shifting slightly, finding the deepest part of the saddle. It felt high, he thought, looking at Hannah's bright mare through the gap between the pricked ears of his horse. "You can tie your pack to the side," she told him, holding one of the pair of rawhide ties that hung down below the horn. He slid the pack from his back one-handed and tied it on, watching as Hannah made sure it was sitting flat behind the horse's shoulder.

"Cisco will follow Sunny, so you don't need to worry much about steering and stopping. Just keep your balance," she said, taking a step back and looking over his position on the gelding.

She was turning away when Sam ran across the bridge. "Hey! Wait for me."

Dean twisted in the saddle, his face darkening. "Dammit, Sammy, I told you, you can't come."

"Hannah's going, so I'm going too. You can't stop me, I'll just follow you – horses are easy to track," Sam said, stopping between them and lifting his chin pugnaciously at his brother.

Hannah looked from Sam to Dean, dimples appearing as she repressed a laugh.

Dean scowled at her. "It's not funny."

She shrugged. "It's up to you, but we'll go faster if he's riding."

He knew that. Knew that his little brother had cornered him into either taking him along, or canning the whole business. Dad would be back tonight or in the morning, and he'd have nothing concrete for him if he bailed on this now. He took a deep breath and gave up, looking at Hannah.

"Does he ride with you, or with me?"

Hannah walked back to the bay. "With you, Cisco's used to doubling, Sunny would have a fit." She looked at Sam. "Come here and give me your pack."

Sam walked to the horse, shrugging out of the pack's straps and handing it over a little reluctantly. Hannah put it on the ground beside her and bent her knees al little, making a step with her hands. Sam looked down at them and lifted his foot.

"No, dumb-ass, put your knee here. When I lift, you grab the back of the saddle and swing your leg over." She shook her head slightly at the ignorance of tenderfoots. "You sit behind your brother, there's enough room for both of you on the saddle, right?"

Sam nodded and Hannah lifted him. He caught the back of the saddle, held between the strength of his arms and her support under his knee as he swung his right leg over the rump of the horse, sliding down a bit into his brother's back.

Looking up them appraisingly, Hannah said. "Sam, wriggle forward a bit more, you got to be tucked in close or there's too much weight on the back of the saddle."

Sam wriggled, holding on to Dean's belt loops. "That better?"

"Yeah." She turned away and swung up onto her mare quickly. "We're not going to be whooping around or anything. You'll be all right. If you see a snake, don't tell the horse." Touching her heels to the mare's sides, she started to walk away, up the gravel road that led to the hills. Cisco ambled after his companion, his long back swaying under them with each stride.

After a few moments, Dean felt like he could manage this. There was a rhythm to the movement and he could feel his hips following it, rocking back and forth while his upper body stayed still.

"You all right, Sam?" He turned his head a little. He'd already found that changing the balance of his weight caused the horse to move in the opposite direction, even a head turn was apparently a signal to Cisco to change direction.

Sam looked down at the ground which seemed to be a long, long way away. "Yeah, not like the movies is it?"

Dean grinned, turning back to look at the road that led up into the low hills and the girl riding ahead of them. "Not much."

* * *

They climbed into the low rocky hills, the sun beating down fiercely and reflecting back up at them from the ground. After a mile the road petered out, washed out in places and covered with rock falls in others, and Hannah followed a narrow trail, winding through the boulders and outcroppings, stands of stunted trees and over patches of sand or gravel.

According to the paper, Red Lightning had been an exploratory mine, searching the hill for sufficient ore to make it worthwhile to fund an open cut. It didn't say if there were such quantities there, but perhaps not since the owner had ditched the mine soon after the accident.

Where the land levelled out, Hannah pushed her mare into a slow jog, sitting easily in the saddle as the horse's stride changed from four time to two time. Behind her, Cisco started to jog as well, and the boys bounced around for a while, before getting the hang of keeping their weight on the horse, legs hanging down long, and letting their upper bodies absorb the impact. By the third time Cisco shifted into his smooth, slow jog, Dean felt like he was actually riding, not just sitting on top of the horse, his balance feeling completely secure. Behind him, Sam had abandoned the belt loops and had his arms wrapped around his brother's waist, aware as they began to climb the steeper slopes of how easy it would be to fall off over the horse's rump if he didn't hang on.

"That's the entrance," Hannah said, reining in her mare and twisting in the saddle to talk to them. Cisco stopped a couple of feet away, and Dean unzipped his back pack, pulling out the maps he'd traced from the plans. He looked at the entrance and oriented the map in the same direction, looking up over the hillside.

"The shaft must be somewhere on the top," he said. "Can we ride up there?"

Hannah looked at the hillside and nodded. "Yeah, hold on though 'cos they bounce around a bit when they're climbing."

She wheeled Sunny around to the lowest point she could see and pushed her forward, the mare striding out willingly as she approached the slope. There was a faint trail, twisting up the side of the hill, and Sunny followed it unerringly, hindquarters bunching as she thrust forward, moving up the slope in a series of half-leaps. Cisco followed, and Dean gripped the horn of the saddle.

"Hang on Sam," he told his brother, unnecessarily as Sam's grip around his waist tightened with the first lurching jump.

Cisco heaved his front up and then his rear, and the boys were whipped forward and back as he proceeded up the hillside.

"Let's not do that again," Sam said breathlessly, when they reached the top.

Dean had marked the distances out on his map from the plan detail, and he watched the ground carefully as they walked along the top of the ridge, more or less following the line of the tunnel beneath them. He looked up and saw Hannah sliding off Sunny, leading the mare away, and dropping the reins. He turned Cisco, and they stopped next to the sorrel mare.

"Hold on to my arm and swing off," Dean said, turning his head to Sam. Sam nodded, gripping his brother's forearm, and swinging his leg over, dropping to the ground. Dean dismounted, dropping the reins on the ground as he walked over to Hannah. His leg muscles felt stretched out but not too sore, they'd been riding for under an hour.

"You find something?"

She nodded, and picked her way across the stony ground. Dean and Sam followed cautiously, their gazes fixed on the ground in front of them. Hannah stopped, and Dean saw the hole as he got close to her, a square shaft, two feet across, utterly black inside. He leaned over the edge and dropped a small pebble down. The pebble seemed to fall for a long time before he heard the clatter of it hitting the rock at the bottom.

"Sam, go with Hannah and get the ropes." He looked around for something to tie to them to. A short distance away, a tall rocky outcrop protruded. He walked over to it, pushing against it with both hands. It was solid.

Tying one end of the rope firmly to the rock, he dropped the coil in, listening for the sound of it hitting the ground. It didn't, was just hanging straight down. He hauled it back up and tied the end to the second rope, using the double sheet bend his father had taught him. He picked up the second coil and threw it down, relieved when he heard the impact of the end hitting the rock below, and the slackness in the rope hanging down.

"You two stay here. You don't follow me, all right?" He looked at Sam as he tightened the straps of the backpack over his shoulders. "I need you both here if I need to get out in a hurry, all right?"

Sam nodded reluctantly. "What happens if something happens to you down there?"

"Nothing will. I'll be back as soon as I've checked that it's the right tunnel."

He picked up the rope and walked to the edge of the hole, then began to back down slowly, hands tightening on the rope as he transferred his weight from ground to rope. Should have brought gloves, he thought, as he lowered himself down hand over hand, would have made this bit quicker.

Sam and Hannah leaned over the edge slightly, watching him descend.

"Your brother's pretty brave," Hannah said.

Sam sighed. Reckless was the word he would have used. He had a bad feeling about letting Dean go down there by himself.

* * *

Dean felt the ground under his feet and looked up. The square light at the top of the shaft looked far away. He thought the shaft was about sixty feet deep. He pulled out the flashlight and turned it on, playing the beam around him.

The shaft must have been sunk at the end of the tunnel, two sides were rock and soil. The tunnel led off in front of him, the ground sloping downwards on a gentle incline. He looked warily at the roof of the tunnel, but it seemed pretty solid. The air was dry, very cool, and held a musty smell. He could feel a slight movement of air past him, from deeper down, drawn out through the shaft. It would give him a way to find the shaft again, he thought hopefully.

He started following the tunnel down.

* * *

"How long do we wait for him?" Hannah asked, settling herself on a rock and shading her eyes as she glanced up at the sun's position.

"We'll give him a half-hour," Sam decided, wishing he'd gotten that straight with Dean before he went in. He didn't say what they'd do when the half-hour was up. He wasn't sure about that bit.

He looked over at her. Today she was wearing a long sleeved shirt. The bruise on her face was dark, black fading to blue around the edges.

"That must have been some door," he commented. She glanced up at him, then looked away.

"Yeah, big door."

They looked at each other as the ground trembled slightly. The gust, when it came out of the shaft, was icy cold, and seemed to wrap around them for a moment, their breath turning to fog as it condensed in the cold spot. Sam's eyes widened as he remembered what Dean had told him about hunting ghosts. He sprang toward Hannah, not sure of what he was going to do, but knowing that he had to do something.

Hannah felt herself pushed, by something, something she couldn't see or touch, her shirt suddenly ripped into pieces that fluttered around her, her head cracking into the rocky ground as Sam leapt toward her. From where she was lying, she watched as he was lifted and thrown, dropping down inside the hole. She heard his cry, echoing off the narrow shaft walls, then nothing. The wind died as suddenly as it had risen, and the cold vanished. The rumble of hooves, as Cisco and Sunny galloped down the hillside, reins and stirrups flying, brought her to her knees, her face screwed up in frustration. Neither horse would stop until they got home now, she thought. She turned back to the shaft, dropping to the ground, and crawling forward, until she could lean out over the shaft, lying on her stomach.

"Sam?" her voice bounced off the shaft walls. "Sammy?"

* * *

Sam lay at the bottom of the shaft, trying to breathe, trying to get his wind back. He'd felt himself plucked from the ground and thrown, seeing the dark walls of the shaft flash past him. He'd grabbed the rope as he fell, burning his hands but stopping his descent for a moment, he'd fallen a bit further, and again tightened his grip on the rope; the second time the friction burns were too painful for him to hold on for long, but the bottom had only been ten feet below him when he let go the second time.

He lay still for a moment, moving his arms and legs a little, looking for whatever damage had been done. He thought he might have bruised his ribs, it hurt a little to take a deep breath. Other than that, and not having the use of his hands, he was all right.

He looked up the shaft, at the long line of rope still hanging down. There was just no way he could climb that, not now, not with raw palms and fingers. He rolled to his feet and leaned against the wall. He could try and follow his brother, without his pack or flashlight. Or he could wait here until he got back. He thought it might be a better idea to wait.

The cold surrounded him again, and he pulled back against the wall, pressing himself into the rock. A sibilant hiss echoed softly from the tunnel, the temperature falling steadily. He felt fingers suddenly grip his arms, saw his skin depressing slightly as they tightened over it, but he couldn't see them. Couldn't see anything around him. He was yanked off his feet, and dragged along the tunnel floor.

* * *

Dean reached a junction. Three tunnels led out of the round space. He looked at the map frowning. Only two of the tunnels were marked on it, and he was positive he hadn't missed the third one when he'd been tracing the map from the plan. He thought that the landslide tunnel was the middle one. It seemed to be in the right direction and it still led downward. The tunnel to his right was on the plan, but dead-ended a few hundred yards in. The one to his left was not on the plan, and it seemed smaller, narrower than the other two.

He looked at it suspiciously for a few moments then headed down the centre tunnel. He had to get on with the job; he could look at the rest afterwards.

* * *

Hannah looked down the hole, every sense straining to get some sign of Sam. She pulled off the tatters of her long sleeved shirt, shivering a little with the memory of the cold that had torn it, her bare arms goose-bumping. Throwing it aside, she dragged her gloves from the back pocket of her jeans. They were rancher's gloves, supple, tough leather designed for use with ropes and wire and she pulled them on, looking around for anything else she could use. Sam's daypack lay on the rock on the other side of the hole and she crawled over to it. When she unzipped the top, her eyes widened in shock as she saw the handgun and the bullets. The flashlight was welcome, but the salt was puzzling. She zipped it back up and slipped the straps over her shoulders, settling it onto her back, then went back to the hole, catching hold of the hanging rope and swinging inside, letting herself down slowly, hand over hand.

With the gloves on, she had good control over the speed of her descent, and she landed on the ground quickly, pulling the flashlight out of the pack and shining the beam around. No Sam.

Kneeling by the wall, Hannah looked down at the two parallel grooves that ran from there down the tunnel. There were no other tracks in the tunnel, but she knew what those grooves meant. Sam had been dragged out. She remembered Dean's comment, and frowned. What could drag a boy away, yet leave no tracks?

Following them was easy, and she walked quickly down the tunnel, noting the heavier criss-cross tread of Dean's boots as well. She reached the junction and stopped. Sam's trail went into the left hand tunnel. Dean's tracks went into the centre tunnel. She looked from one to the other, unsure of which to follow. Sam was in danger, she could feel it. Whatever had taken him was not natural. But she had no idea of what she was dealing with, and she thought that both boys did. She glanced again at the left hand tunnel, biting her lip as she saw the drag marks continue into it. Then she started to run for the centre tunnel. If she could find Dean, they would have a better chance of dealing with whatever it was together, she thought.

* * *

Dean walked slowly down the tunnel. There were rocks and piles of dirt on the floor here, the outer edges of the weakness that had caused the cave-in, he thought. He rounded a bend in the tunnel and stopped. The flashlight played over white bones, gleaming on the skulls, creating shadows in the curving ribcages. He walked slowly to the skeletons, his breathing fast and shallow. Two of the men had been injured in the collapse. He looked down at the broken femur of one, the cracked skull of another. But the other two were intact. His imagination fleshed them out, replaying the possible scene for him. Infection, fever, pain for man with the broken leg. Perhaps an instant death for the man with the cracked skull. But for the other two, death had come in thirst and starvation, staying with their friends, unable to escape, alone in the darkness.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the images that came with such ease. He put his pack on the ground and pulled out the salt, using the long hunting knife to cut open the top of the bag. He lifted it, and started to spread the salt over the skeletons. The sudden chill, accompanied by a strong gust of wind, made his heart stutter. He looked around and poured the salt out of the bag faster, watching his breath turn white and condense in front of his mouth.

"Dean!"

The faint cry in the tunnel was Hannah's. What the hell was she doing down here? The thought was part fury, part worry. And following hard on its heels, the next thought sent a shiver down his spine. Where was Sam?

He stepped back from the skeletons and tipped the bag up, turning around as the salt poured to the ground in a smooth circle, enclosing him, enclosing the pack. He picked up the shotgun and crossed out of it, sensing rather seeing the ghost rising up behind him as he swung back around. The apparition was pale, a man, in his late twenties, shaggy dark hair and a full beard, dark eyes staring at him, dark pants held up with braces, over a thick flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled to above the elbow. And a dreadful gaping hole in the left side of his skull.

He raised the shotgun and fired, the boom deafening in the small space, the pellets spreading out and ploughing through the spirit, who vanished instantly. He turned away and headed up the tunnel, flashlight gripped in his left hand, the gun held tightly in his right.

"Hannah!"

He could hear the sound of running footsteps and he lifted the beam of the light higher, her own flashlight beam – Sam's flashlight, he saw – shifting wildly over the walls and floor. There was a cut on her face, just under the right eye, and another bruise on her neck. Her shirt was gone, the thin singlet she wore under it was filthy with dirt. He saw a number of dark bruises on one arm, from her shoulder to her wrist, finger marks standing out against the tanned skin. He stepped back when it seemed she wasn't going to stop, but she slowed at the last second and faced him, her breath rasping in and out of her throat, her eyes wide.

"Dean, something's got Sam."

He felt his heart shrivel up in his chest, fear sending ice through his veins. He nodded abruptly, and turned back down the tunnel.

"Come on, you need to get in the circle."

She followed him down, flinching slightly when her light played over the skeletons, their white bones now sparkling slightly under the coating of salt. When they were both standing in the circle, he looked at her.

"What happened? Quickly."

"We were at the top and the earth trembled a little, like just before an earthquake, but not strong," she told him, shivering slightly with the cold but her voice firm and steady. "This wind came out of the hole and it knocked Sam into it. I climbed down but something had taken him, dragged him, down the tunnels."

"Did you see where?" He leaned close to her, his eyes nearly black with concentration.

"The left hand tunnel, in the junction," she said. "I could see you came down here, I thought I'd better find you first."

"You did the right thing." In the upsplash from the flashlights he could see her shivering, but she was calm, and that said a lot for her. "Can you fire a shotgun?"

"Yeah." Hannah nodded readily, looking down at the gun.

He broke the gun, reloading it and handing it to her. "You see anything in here, just shoot it."

"But –"

"Stay here," Dean repeated, one hand closing over her shoulder to emphasise the point. "Do not get out of the circle. I'm going to finish this. Then we look for Sam."

She nodded, stepping back to the edge of the circle as he crouched and pulled out the bottle of butane and the matches. He stepped out of the circle, and started squirting the lighter fluid over the bones, feeling the temperature drop again.

"Get ready, Hannah, something's coming," he told her, his gaze fixed to the piles of bones as he continued to squirt the fluid over every fragment he could see. He dropped the bottle and lit the match, his lungs aching with each breath as the cold became frigid. Behind him, Hannah turned slowly within the circle, and when the spectre began to form, she drew a bead on it, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Dean threw the match onto the soaked and salted skeletons and the fire leapt up. Three apparitions appeared suddenly in the narrow tunnel, rushing toward him. He had his knife in his hand, ready, but they were burned up to nothing before they could reach him. He looked back at the pile, counting skulls, counting bodies as fast as he could. They were all there, but where was the fourth spirit? The flames hadn't yet reached all of its bones, and he ran around the pile, pulling another match from the book, and striking it as the fourth ghost appeared behind him, Hannah's warning cry filling the tunnel. Hands reached into his back. He felt the fingers like blades of ice, piercing him, gripping his heart and lungs and squeezing them and his fingers released the match involuntarily as pain consumed him. It fell onto the bones, catching the fumes of the butane first, then spreading to the liquid and erupting into flame.

The hands were gone. Dean fell to his knees, his heart hurting, his lungs struggling to pull in enough air. He heard the clatter of the gun being dropped distantly, heard the light footsteps behind him, and felt hands pulling him up.

"You all right?" Hannah knelt in front of him, holding him up by the lapels of his coat, her face inches from his, and he nodded, rubbing one hand over his chest as he felt himself thawing.

He looked up, meeting her eyes, and she leaned forward very suddenly, pressing her lips against his. He froze, uncertain of why she was doing what she was doing, or what he was supposed to do, barely registering the lingering softness of her mouth before she let him go and moved back, taking his hand. He staggered to his feet when she rose and pulled him up with her, watching her turn away, pick up the shotgun and the pack. When she handed both to him, he took them, reloading the gun automatically from the shells in his pocket as questions and unexpected emotion briefly stole his concentration from the job at hand.

"Come on." She started to walk fast up the tunnel and he slung the pack over his shoulder, following her, his flashlight's beam bobbing over the floor and walls, his thoughts returning to his brother. And to what his father would say to him if anything had happened to Sammy.

* * *

Sam lay at the end of the unmarked tunnel. He could feel a contusion rising on the back of his head, cuts and scrapes along his arms. His ribs still ached. His hands hurt the worst though, the burns and blisters stinging continuously, filled with the dirt from the tunnel floor as he'd tried to stop himself being dragged. He heard a sound in the tunnel in front of him and froze, wriggling up against the wall. Then he saw the lights, bouncing around the walls, and relaxed. Dean. And Hannah, he guessed.

He'd been pretty sure Dean had found the skeletons when the ghosts left him here, three disappearing first, then the fourth. Set to rest, burned up.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice sounded from around the final bend. "Sam!"

"I'm here," his voice came out as a croak, and he coughed, clearing his throat. "Dean, I'm here!"

Dean and Hannah ran around the bend, Dean dropping to his knees next to him.

"You all right? What happened? Any injuries?" He held the flashlight on Sam's chest, looking over him.

"I'm okay. I banged my head. I think my ribs are bruised, kind of hurts when I breathe in. I burned my hands on the rope." He held up his hands and Dean winced as he saw the mess of the palms and fingers.

"Okay, sit up."

Dean let his pack slide off his shoulder, and took out the bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and spilling it over Sam's hands. Sam hissed as the liquid stung fiercely in the sores. He watched as his older brother pulled a couple of bandages from the small kit he'd brought, and some sterilised non-stick gauze dressings, trying to keep his pain locked inside, the way Dean would've.

Dean ripped open the packs and laid the dressings over the palms, then wound the bandages over the top. They'd have to re-do it in the motel, but it would, he hoped, keep them clean enough for now. Sam nodded when he finished. Excluding the air had reduced the stinging a little. Dean felt gently over the back of Sam's head, finding the lump. There was no blood and it didn't seem that it had been hard enough to cause a concussion or any permanent damage. It was another thing they'd have a closer look at when they were back in the motel.

"Let's get out of here." He stood up and reached around Sam, lifting him to his feet. "Next time, when I tell you not to come, don't come, all right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly. "All right."

* * *

They reached the bottom of the ventilation shaft and Dean felt a flood of relief that the rope was still hanging there.

"Horses still there?" He turned to Hannah. She shook her head.

"They took off when the ghosts came out. They'll have gone straight home." She thought about the worry and the anger that would cause, then pushed the thought away. Couldn't be helped. She'd just have to put up with whatever the consequences were.

"Have to do this the hard way then," Dean said with a low sigh. "I'm going to climb out. Hannah, when I'm out, I need you to tie Sam to the rope, and I'll haul him out. Then we'll throw the rope back down and haul you out last. Okay?"

She nodded, stripping off her gloves and handing them to him. "You'll need these."

He pulled them on, the fit a little tight but the leather would give, he thought. Reaching up as high as he could, his hands gripped the rope and he started to climb, hand over hand, his feet gripping the rope between the soles of his boots as he kept shifting his grip higher. It took him a long time to climb out, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders were trembling by the time he got his knee on the edge and rolled out, lying on his back for a moment and sucking in deep breaths.

He looked at the rock edge of the hole. He'd need something for the rope to run over, when he started pulling Sam out, or it would be cut through. The pack on his back was the only thing he could think of that might work. Pulling everything out of it, he laid it over the rock, anchoring it as well as he could with a few rocks around the edges. He pulled experimentally on the rope, and was satisfied as it slid smoothly over the synthetic surface of the pack.

"Let me know when you're ready," he called down. Hannah tied two loops in the end of the rope, a large one that she slid over Sam's shoulder and chest, and a smaller one at the tail, for Sam to put his foot in.

"Okay!" she shouted up toward the bright square of light above them. It was, she realised as she looked up, not nearly as bright as it'd been.

Dean hauled until he had enough slack to loop the rope around himself and then he started to walk away from the hole. Sam might have been smaller and lighter, but he was still a fair weight, and pulling, instead of lifting, was a lot easier and a helluva lot faster.

In the shaft, Sam and Hannah were astonished by how fast Sam rose. Dean stopped when he saw the top of Sam's head, advancing slowly as Sam got his knee over the edge, and freed himself from the loops. They threw the rope back down, and Dean again walked away, faster this time, with Sam there to help Hannah over the edge.

Dean stood unmoving to one side of the hole as Sam and Hannah pulled up the rope, breaking the knot that connected the two pieces and coiling them up. His muscles were shaking from the pounding they'd gotten, and with all three out of the hole, reaction had set in, a combination he was familiar with from past hunts with his father. The fear and worry that he couldn't have let out at the time being released now that they were all safe. Just a six mile walk back to the motel, he thought a bit mockingly. Nothing to it.

The sun set as they started down the trail, and the sky was lit in shades of blue and purple, casting shadows over the slides and hollows, making them stumble even with the flashlights lighting up the path. They got moving as quickly as they could because darkness would come fast, and they needed to be off the hillside before then, if possible. Slipping and staggering through the rocks, Dean felt as if any moment he could lose his balance and go flying, the fatigue in his body was so great, but somehow he managed to keep his balance, keep his footing and keep on going. Sam and Hannah walked a little in front of him, both weaving slightly with weariness. The road up had seemed quick, going back was taking forever.

The trail widened back into the road as the moon rose in the east, washing the landscape in silver and making the shadows such a dense black that even the beams of their flashlights hardly seemed to penetrate them.

"Not far now," Hannah called back to him, slowing and letting Sam go on ahead. Only another mile and they'd be able to stop.

"You okay?" She looked sideways at him, her brow furrowed up in concern. He nodded, turning his head to look at her. In the moonlight, the bruising on her face looked black.

"What happened to you? You didn't get those today," he asked.

She looked away. "Got into trouble for being late home yesterday."

"What?" He slowed, brows drawing down as he connected the bruising on her arm with the bruise on her face. "Your dad did that to you?"

Her lips compressed slightly as she answered, "He gets worried about me."

Dean bit back his immediate response, recognising her reluctance to talk about it any further. He pushed his outrage down, shaking his head.

Their father pushed them. Harder than most kids, he knew from talking to others at the various schools they'd been through in the last few years. Their lives were different from other kids', they had to be ready for the things that lived in the dark and could come out of nowhere. He'd met kids before who'd come to school in long-sleeves and high-necked shirts. Seen that slightly furtive duck of the head when they'd tried to explain that they'd done something wrong. Their dad was hard but he wasn't mean and he didn't let his anger hurt his sons.

He blinked as a vague and almost formless memory came to him, his cheekbone stinging a little with the recollection. He had once, he thought, a long time ago. Never since then.

* * *

They crossed the bridge and walked slowly to the motel. Dean saw, but didn't register the black car parked in front of their room. Hannah saw but didn't connect the faded grey pickup parked across two slots nearby to her father.

"_HANNAH!_"

Her head jerked up as the roar of her father's voice filled the parking lot. She straightened up quickly, stumbling as her feet tried to go faster than her body would allow.

"What the hell have you been doing, girl? That boy touch you?" Her father strode over to her, his hand biting tightly into her bruised upper arm. He turned to look at Dean, lips curling back over his teeth. "What you do to my girl, boy?"

Dean stumbled to a halt, his weariness making it hard to think. He stared at the tall, lean man holding the girl uncomprehendingly. "Nothing, sir."

"Bull-SHIT!" Hannah's father dropped her arm, pushing her backward with enough force to knock her over. He took a threatening step toward Dean, hands balled into fists and his expression twisted up with anger.

"If he said he didn't do anything, then he didn't do anything."

The deep, dark-timbred voice that came from the shadows beside the black car was mild, but held a clear warning. Dean felt his knees sag as he saw his father walk out into the moonlight and cross the lot.

"I was a boy, I know what boys do after dark, mister."

"Don't judge everyone by yourself," John said quietly, looking at the girl, seeing the bruising at the side of her face, the expression of pain as her father swung around and grabbed her again, his hand biting tightly in her flesh as he lifted her to her feet. "Let her go, you're hurting her."

"Don't you tell me my business, asshole!" He turned back to Dean, almost spitting in his anger. "Sonofabitch city kids think they can do anything they like with innocent girls –"

John took a single long stride, and his fist slammed into the man's face like a sledgehammer, dropping him instantly. Hannah stood next to his limp form, shaking as she looked down at him.

John looked at her, his expression drawn. "You all right?"

She nodded, teeth worrying the edge of her lip.

"Have you got somewhere you could stay tonight, with someone? Away from your home?" John pressed, not wanting to leave her here unprotected while her father was tanked, angry and looking for someone to take it out on.

"Can stay with Beth," she said, nodding again, her gaze lifting from her father to the man in front of him. "He just worries about me."

John tucked his chin against his chest and sighed. "Maybe he does, sweetheart, but you go someplace else for tonight, okay? And go talk to the police if he hits you again."

She looked at him, and he saw a rising flush spread from her chest and up her neck, flaming in her cheeks. Most of the town would've known about it, he thought, a little sourly. Just not their business. He thought he'd have time to drop in to talk to the cops briefly on his way back.

Turning to his boys, he looked both over. Dean looked like he was ready to fall down at any moment and Sammy's hands were bandaged. Something had gone on out in the hills and he'd find out about it later, he decided. They were both standing. That was enough for now.

"Get inside, get packed, we're going," he said, his voice harsh, the words an order. Dean nodded and grabbed Sam's arm, leading him inside the room.

"Where's your friend's place?" John asked Hannah in a gentler tone. She pointed down the road.

"A couple of blocks that way," she told him. "He gunna be alright here?"

"He'll live," John said mildly, gesturing to the street. "Come on, I'll walk you."

He took a couple of steps and waited for her. She pulled her gaze away from her father and followed him, walking down the street next to him.

* * *

Dean found that his fatigue was gone. Adrenalin pumped through his muscles and he packed up everything at top speed, glancing frequently at Sam to make sure he was doing what he was supposed to be doing, working faster when he saw how much trouble Sammy was having with his hands.

When John opened the door, the bags were packed and closed, the room clean and tidy.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Dean?"

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. He was expecting it, he'd screwed up, put two other people in danger. He deserved it.

"You take your brother and a girl out in the middle of the night?"

"It was a ghost hunt, Dad," Sam burst out, looking at Dean's bowed head. "Four ghosts were killing people around here, Dean put 'em to rest."

Dean closed his eyes, wishing his brother would lose the ability to talk – forever.

"You took Sammy and a girl on a hunt, Dean?"

He heard the ragged fury in his father's voice and dropped his head lower. Sam heard it as well, and realised that he'd made a mistake, but his brother would be the one paying for it.

"Answer me!"

"I'm sorry," Dean said, keeping his gaze on the floor. "They weren't supposed to be in the tunnels with me, they were supposed to wait outside."

"Unbelievable. They were supposed to wait outside?" John repeated, staring at him. "Hasn't it gotten into your thick head yet that no hunt goes according to plan, that's why we have to be so godamned careful of everything, that's why we keep the people we care about as far away as possible!"

Sam looked up at his father, a spurt of anger at the injustice of the accusation burning in his chest. "It wasn't Dean's fault, Dad, I made him take me – and Hannah and me –"

"If he were a better hunter, you couldn't make him do anything, Sam," John cut him off sharply. He looked at his youngest son's hands. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sam looked down at the bandages, swallowing as he realised he didn't know if the truth was going to get Dean into worse trouble. "I – uh –"

"He fell down the ventilation shaft and burned his hands, trying to grab the rope," Dean said resignedly. "They need to be cleaned out properly, I just used the saline from the kit."

John looked at him. "Alright, get those bags into the car and bring the big med kit back in here. Sammy, sit down."

Dean picked up the gun bag and heaved it onto his shoulder, grabbing his duffle in the other hand. He walked out of the room slowly, but stoically, ignoring the protests of his arms and legs. John watched him go then turned to his youngest son.

"Alright, what happened? All of it, the truth, Sammy."

"We heard about the ghosts from Hannah, four men trapped in a mine tunnel that collapsed. Dean and I looked it up at the library, and it was true, and the newspapers had the details of a bunch of campers and hikers who've died in the area as well, so Dean wanted to check the mine," Sam said, a little hesitantly. "Hannah and me didn't go in with him, we were at the top of the shaft when the ghosts came out, even though it was day and they weren't supposed to –"

John's mouth curled up. "Who told you ghosts abide by a particular rule book, Sammy?"

Sam dropped his gaze to the floor.

Behind them, the door opened again and Dean carried the big first aid kit to his father, setting it down as John started to unwrap his brother's hands.

"Boil up some water and add some salt, Dean, I'll need to soak these to get all the dirt out," his father said. "Then you can load up the rest of the stuff."

"Yes, sir."

Sam flinched slightly as the gauze came away, most of congealed with blood and clear liquid to the wounds. He hadn't realised how shredded his palms were until his father eased them into the warm, salted water, using swabs to clean them out as gently as possible.

"He found the bodies, and salted and burned the remains, Dad," Sam said quietly when Dean had headed out the door with another load. "Saved me, Hannah too."

John nodded noncommittally as he patted his son's hands dry and filled the cleaned out tears with antibiotic powder.

"What was the story with the girl's father?"

Sam shook his head. "We didn't meet him. We met Hannah yesterday." He looked up at his father. "I don't know why the guy was so angry at Dean."

John didn't respond, wrapping Sam's hands in clean dressing and winding a clean bandage around each. "These are going to hurt for a while, Sammy," he said, tying off the last one. "You tell me when it gets too much, you'll need something to help you sleep through it, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

John looked around as Dean came in again, the boy stopping uncertainly by the door. "Car's loaded."

"Good, Sam, go get in," he said, getting to his feet and gathering up the debris of the bandages Dean had dressed Sam's hands in. "Dean, you stay."

He dropped the dressings and bandages in the trash can next to the kitchenette and turned around, seeing his oldest son's gaze drop immediately.

"Well?" he asked.

"I was only going up there to check it out, because Hannah and Sam … anyway, the ghosts were supposed to be only active at night, not during the day …" Dean's voice trailed away as he belatedly realised that was another thing he should have checked out first. He'd been impatient, wanting to finish the job before Dad had returned, had wanted to have something to tell him to make him proud.

"The ghosts knocked Sam into the shaft and Hannah came down after him. I salted and burned the bones, and they vanished, then we got out," he finished, with a slight shrug. If he'd taken more time to get things right, had made Hannah draw a map instead of coming along, if … if … if. He let out his breath, seeing clearly all the mistakes he'd made.

John listened to the faltering recitation with mixed feelings. He was still angry that Dean had put Sam and the girl, Hannah, into danger – real danger. He hadn't checked everything out properly and had gone in half-cocked, thinking he knew enough when he didn't. Looking at the boy's expression, he had a feeling Dean was getting that for himself now.

On the other hand, he'd done the job, gotten everyone out and protected Sam and Hannah as well as he'd could.

"Look at me," he said to his son and Dean raised his head reluctantly to meet his father's eyes.

"You are never to go hunting on your own again, you hear me?" John's voice held a whiplash of command and Dean nodded quickly.

"You never put Sam in that kind of risk again," John continued, watching his son swallow and nod again, Dean's face paling slightly under the smattering of light freckles as he ducked his head and stared at the floor.

John looked at him for a long moment. "But."

Dean's eyes flicked up to meet his father's when he heard that single word.

"You did a good job of protecting them," John said consideringly. "And you didn't panic. You finished the job."

Dean's expression was torturously transparent, his pulse fluttering at the base of his throat as he stared at his father. John smiled, dropping a hand onto his boy's shoulder.

"You did good. I'm proud of you, Dean," he told him, his hand squeezing the shoulder lightly.

Dean ducked his head, pressing his chin hard against his chest as his throat inexplicably tightened. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't take it in. His father's voice had softened … deepened … was filled with an emotion that he couldn't quite decipher.

_Proud_ of him.

Proud of _him_!

"Come on," John said, recognising his son's rising emotions by the tint of red that coloured the tips of Dean's ears. "You and Sam look like you're about to keel over. We'll get going, get something to eat in Ajo."

Dean nodded, about-facing and walking to the car, barely able to see where he was going. He heard his father's footsteps behind him, the click of the motel room door closing and he hurried to the passenger side of the car, getting in and pulling the door shut quickly, grateful for the darkness of the interior. A fast glance over his shoulder showed Sam half-sprawled over the back seat, mouth open and eyes closed, his bandaged hands tucked against his chest.

_Proud_. The thought wouldn't let go and he blinked hard as his father opened the driver's door and slid into the car. He'd made so many mistakes, could easily have lost Sam – or Hannah – could've been killed himself …

_But you didn't lose them_, a small voice murmured against his thoughts. _You didn't die. You did the job and you got them out_.

He was tempted to argue with that voice, to deny what he'd done. He snuck a quick look at his father as John started the car and pulled out of the lot. He could be hard, he could be harsh sometimes too. The one thing Dean knew for certain about his father was that he never gave praise or a compliment if it wasn't completely deserved. Never told anyone anything just to make them feel better.

_Proud of you. _

It meant that it was true. He hugged that knowledge to himself, turning to look out the window as the black car increased its speed as they reached the highway.

* * *

Leaning back in the corner between the door and the back of the seat as they pulled out of Ajo an hour later, his stomach full of hot food, Dean stared out of the window in a drowsy state of contentment.

It had been a strange few days. His first solo hunt. His first horseback ride. His first kiss. The first time he'd seen his Dad look at him as if he could see a partner, instead of a little boy. He shook his head slightly.

"What was the story with the girl, Dean?" John looked over at his son. Sam was sleeping, stretched all the way out on the back seat, a blanket tucked around him. Dean shrugged.

"We met the day after you left. She was pretty cool." He hesitated for a moment, then turned to look at his father. "She kissed me."

John hid a smile at the tone in Dean's voice. "Yeah? What did you think?"

Dean thought about the moment. Her lips had been very soft. Aside from the fact he'd been completely taken by surprise, he thought he'd like to try it again. Maybe not in the same circumstances.

"It was nice," he said finally. John laughed softly and Dean turned to look at him, mouth curving into a slightly uncertain smile. It had been nice.


	11. Chapter 11 Half A Shadow

**Chapter 11 Half A Shadow**

* * *

_If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?  
~ William Shakespeare_

* * *

_**1991. Kuwait.**_

Caleb Beider woke suddenly, sweat pouring from his face, his heart hammering in his chest, and a scream held behind clenched teeth. _Amy_. Her name kept echoing through his mind.

He sat up on the camp cot, struggling to make sense of the nightmare, the third time it had come to him in as many days. It couldn't be real. It couldn't. But fear traced icy fingers down his spine, and somewhere, deep inside, he thought that maybe it was. The night was cold, it always was in the desert, and he shivered as the sweat chilled on his skin, reaching for the jacket that lay at the foot of the cot.

He couldn't get his head around it. Amy – she'd been his high school girlfriend, prom date, they'd been pretty tight but it hadn't lasted beyond graduation. He still cared for her, he knew, cared about what happened to her. She'd married Steve Waylan at eighteen, ready to start a family and do the whole suburban thing. It had been why they'd split, really, that desire to have a family and be utterly normal, straight out of school. He'd joined up, wanting to see a bit more of the world, know a few more people than those who lived in the small town they'd both grown up in. And he'd left, shipped out to Kuwait, and she'd gotten married.

He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, shaking off the droplets of sweat that came away on it. There was no way – no _way_ – that what he'd been dreaming about could have possibly happened to her. Maybe to someone funky, someone out there who took risks, ran the red-eye, but not to Amy, whose only ambition in life was to be exactly like her mom.

The dream – the nightmare – always started out pretty tame. He was walking down an ordinary suburban street, maybe one of the bedroom communities outside of some city or other. The houses were virtually identical. All the trees were the same age, pruned the same way. The smooth asphalt streets were immaculate, not a crack or pothole to be seen, no pavements, just kerbs with the house numbers painted on, broken by the gently lifting concrete driveways that led to double or triple garages.

There were toys on some of the lawns. Bikes, scooters, die cast trucks and balls. It was the middle of the afternoon and the neighbourhood was quiet, peaceful. He turned into a driveway, walking up to the house. And that's when he'd get the first prickle of unease, that creeping feeling that there was something wrong with this picture. All the curtains were drawn. The house looked shuttered, secretive, blind.

He'd climb the steps to the front porch and knock on the ornately carved timber door, peering in through the etched glass side panels, unable to see anything out of order inside. But no one answered. He'd look around, feeling ridiculously furtive, then bend down, pulling out the set of picks he'd picked up from a poker game on base and taught himself to use. The lock would click, the door opened … and the smell hit him.

He couldn't ever remember being able to smell in a dream.

Rank, thick, a combination of the coppery stench of blood, and something darker – rot, decay, decomposition. He knew both smells intimately. He'd been on enough burial details.

At that point, he wanted desperately to turn around and walk away. But his feet thought otherwise, and he took one step after another into the hallway, aware of the thick cream carpet under them, the cheap, but tasteful furniture and décor in the rooms to either side of him, his feet walked him to the stairs and then started up them.

On the walls beside the staircase he could see photographs, lots of them, family portraits and pictures of babies, and a toddler, in various outfits and various poses. Pictures of Amy, with her children, with her husband, with her best friend, Veronica. That had really bothered him. He could understand dreaming about Amy, being worried about her, but why would that stuck-up bitch be in his dreams? He'd never liked Ronnie, and the feeling had been mutual. Yet there she was, on the walls above the stairs, arms around Amy, or raising a glass, even one of her holding a tennis racquet, on a court. It was, he was sure, beyond his subconscious to come up with an image like that to populate a dream, even a dream that was actually a nightmare.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he'd stop. Because the smell was a lot worse here, high in the house in the middle of summer. The heat was heavy, and the smell so thick he felt as if he had to push his way through it as he was breathing it in.

And his feet would once again carry him along the hallway, and into the master bedroom at the northern end of the house, where the unbelievable richness of the stench made him gag. The curtains were drawn, the light dim in here, and his eyes would take awhile to adjust and then he'd see them. Facing each other, tied to the straightback chairs, wrists and ankles bound tightly, their heads lolling back as if to point up the bloody wounds in their necks, puncture marks, multiple, made by nothing he'd ever seen before, or knew of.

He would go to Amy first, his hand rising of its own accord to touch her neck, to feel for a pulse, but then stopping, as he saw the lividity of her skin, the flies settling on her open eyes, clinging there even as he waved his hand at them, her tongue, thick and green, protruding from her mouth. He'd turn away, falling to the floor, heaving helplessly, his gorge rising and filling his throat and mouth.

Amy's husband, Steve, sat in the other chair. The same peculiar wounds covering his neck and shoulder. The same unmistakeable signs showing that he'd died a while ago. He would crawl out of the room, shaking his head miserably, trying to shake loose the images, the smell, the horror. Then he would remember the pictures of the children, and he would stumble to his feet, running down the hall to the other rooms, searching, searching. He never found them.

And then he would wake, the same scream locked in his throat, his stomach tossing, his head pounding with fear and grief, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

Three nights.

It had to mean something.

* * *

"Beider? Beider!" The sergeant's voice drilled into his brain. Caleb looked up at him tiredly.

"Yo."

"Ready to go? Shipping you back tonight. Got to get you to the airfield by fifteen hundred hours, soldier."

Caleb nodded. He was ready. He picked up his duffle and looked over the tent. Nothing had been left behind. He walked out behind the sergeant and climbed into the Jeep that would take him on the first leg of the long trip home.

* * *

_**1992. Spring Falls, Iowa.**_

Caleb sat in the motel room, staring vacantly at the wall. It was true, it was all true. But the kids were safe, with Amy's mother. He'd parlayed an acquaintanceship with the desk sergeant's brother, a fellow jarhead back in the desert, for a look at the police reports. Everything was the same. The way they'd been found. The way the house had looked. Everything.

He couldn't understand it, couldn't begin to comprehend what that was supposed to mean.

The police had not speculated on what had happened. They'd marked it homicide, and the autopsy showed that cause of death had been blood loss. The human body held around five quarts of blood. That was a lot of blood to go missing. There had been some on and around the bodies, but not much. Where had the rest gone? The puncture wounds were unidentifiable. Meaning that the coroner had never seen anything like them. Neither had the police. That makes a few of us, he thought sourly.

He crossed his arms on the table, resting his head on them. No one deserved to die like that, he thought, but especially not Amy.

The report contained something else that hadn't made sense. There were no signs of forced entry in the house. Either Amy or Steve had let their killer in. He found that difficult to believe. But Amy was a trusting person. He hadn't met her husband, before he'd gone, he had a feeling that Steve would have been a trusting person too, must have been.

He closed his eyes. The nightmare had stopped when he'd arrived back. Now he could barely remember the details – except the smell. He suspected that the smell in the dream would remain with him for a long time.

* * *

Jim put the report back in the file and handed it to John.

"No tox screens," the priest said briefly, leaning back and rubbing his eyes.

John opened the file, and read through the report slowly. He'd called Jim when he came across the case, because he couldn't get hold of Daniel – and it looked very much like a vampire was hunting here.

"These wounds -" John picked up the photo and the magnifying glass, staring at the enlarged picture carefully. "- they look like multiple punctures to the same site."

Jim nodded. "Elkins said that vampires will sometimes keep a victim alive for a few days, feeding slowly from them."

"But he told me that they don't have fangs. They have a second set of teeth, a full set, that come down over the human teeth." John looked up at Jim. "Look at this."

He handed the photo and glass to Jim. Jim set the photo on the table and moved the magnifying glass slowly over the image. He looked up.

"Two holes."

John nodded. "A lot of repeated punctures, but each set has two holes, along the jugular."

"So we're probably not looking for a vampire." Jim stood up and went to the coffee pot, picking it up and pouring himself another cup. "Which, now that I think of it, has not improved the situation."

John gave him a wry smile. "You have a gift for understatement."

"Comes with the job." Jim touched his collar lightly. "Does it bother you that there was no signs at all of forced entry?"

"Yeah."

"They knew this monster. What does that tell you?" Jim sat down again, cradling the hot cup in his hands.

"It looks human."

"Right. And it looks so human that it's possible they thought it was a friend, or a colleague, someone they felt comfortable enough with to let into their home."

John looked down at the report thoughtfully. "That's a long lead time for a monster."

"Exactly. Steve Waylan was six foot one, two hundred and ten pounds." Jim gestured at the report. "Not easy to subdue a man of that size, unless he was –"

"Drugged?" John rubbed his jaw, looking up at Jim. "No chance of confirming that now."

"No, but we can start talking to the people who knew the Waylans, see if we can stir things up a little?"

John grinned at him. "Sounds like fun."

* * *

Caleb looked through the address book he'd taken from Amy's house. If she and Steve had known their killer, had let them in, there was a chance, however slim, that that person would be in here. It was the only lead he had.

He drove to Mrs Beckerman's house. Amy's mother would know at least some of the relationships her daughter had had with the names in the book, might be able to get rid of a few of the dead ends.

Mrs Beckerman opened the front door warily. Caleb tried to hide his shock at her appearance, tried not to stare. When he'd seen her last, before he'd left, she'd been an attractive blonde, just edging toward plumpness, salon-three-times-a-week kind of woman. He couldn't ever remember seeing her in casual clothes.

Now, she looked haggard. She'd lost weight, the shapeless track suit hanging off her, the dark roots of her hair were growing out, giving her an odd two-toned ageing punk look, and it was lank, unwashed, pulled carelessly back into a ponytail. Shadows and wrinkles surrounded her eyes and bracketed her mouth, distinct in the morning light and unhidden by any trace of make-up.

"Caleb?" She looked at him, her expression slightly puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Beckerman. I got back and heard about Amy and Steve," he said. "I wanted – I'm sorry for your loss." He'd decided to tell her as much truth as he could, minus the dream, of course.

Her face crumpled suddenly, then smoothed out again, grief lurking just under the surface, ready for any unwary moment. She nodded and stepped back from the door.

"Come in." Her throat was tight, and her words came out thickly. "I'm sorry, I'm still having trouble believing it."

He stepped past her into the wide hallway, his gaze, trained for so long to notice every tiny detail of his surroundings, taking in the dust kitties along the skirting boards, the fine cobwebs high against the cornice. Amy's mother had been a model housewife, the house had never been less than immaculate when he'd been dating her daughter. It spoke volumes, looking at it now, about the state of mind Mrs Beckerman was in. He hoped she would be able to concentrate enough to help him.

"Coffee?" she asked vaguely, walking past him to the kitchen. "I'm drinking too much of it, just can't seem to make an effort for anything else."

"Coffee would be good, Mrs Beckerman." He followed her down to the sunny room, seeing the dishes and pots piled in the sink and over the counters. Mrs Beckerman turned, catching the direction of his gaze and a flush of red rose up her neck.

"I'm sorry about the way the house is." She looked around, as if seeing it for the first time. "I don't have the energy for keeping it nice at the moment."

"It's fine," he said, taking a chair at the old pine table, and pulling out the address book from his coat pocket.

"Mrs Beckerman, I was hoping you would be able to help me. Amy and Steve must have known the person who …" he hesitated, looking up at her, seeing her face freeze, knowing the word she was dreading. "The person who did this to them. I need to know which of the people in this book could be a possibility."

Mrs Beckerman walked closer and looked over his shoulder at the book. "That's Amy's address book."

"Yes, it is."

She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand absently, her gaze fixed on the book. "Aren't the police investigating this, Caleb?"

"They don't seem to be, ma'am." He looked for the right words, the words that would convince her to help. "I can't let this rest, Mrs Beckerman, I have to find that person, and … and bring them to justice." He looked down at the book. "Amy didn't deserve it, Steve either. They were good people."

She nodded, with an abrupt vehemence that seemed to shake her out of her apathy. "You're right, they didn't. And the police don't seem to know diddly-squat about what happened, Caleb. They haven't got any leads at all."

She turned away sharply, her breath sucked in with a hiss. Going to the coffee pot, she took down and filled two cups, the clinking of the china giving her away the trembling of her hands. She walked back to the table and set one down beside him, the coffee slopping over the rim and staining the table top.

"I need my glasses," she said, looking around the kitchen. "I'll be back in a minute."

Caleb let out his breath, and picked up the cup, sipping the hot black brew. He'd been worried that she'd be uncomfortable helping; she'd always been one to look to the authorities to sort things out. Plainly, and luckily for him, her world view had changed with the brutal death of her daughter.

He left an hour later, the book tucked into his jacket pocket. She'd been helpful, removing people who were no longer in town, those who were above suspicion, and had told him quite a lot of about the people listed as recent friends or work colleagues. Benefits of small towns, he thought to himself, everyone pretty much knew everyone else's business.

He got into his car and drove towards the main street. Amy had been doing some part time work for a printing business. He'd start there. According to Mrs Beckerman, Ralph Emerson was not a possibility; he'd been born in the town and had run the business for the last thirty years. But he'd recently taken on a couple of new employees, both from out of state. A young woman and an older man. Amy had started a few months ago, and had mentioned both in conversations.

The main street was short and busy. Caleb found a parking spot a couple of blocks from the business and parked, getting out and crossing the street. He tried to think how he could trap the killer into giving away enough to be able to identify him. He was sure it was a man, if only because Steve had been a big guy, and no woman could have overcome him and tied him to that chair, certainly not with Amy in the house.

A discreet buzzer went off as he pushed the door open, and the two men standing at the counter looked around at him; an older man, lean and wiry with black hair and a short black beard, both shot through with silver, dressed in a black suit; the man beside him tall and broad across the shoulders, deep through the chest, in jeans and an old leather jacket, his dark brown hair cut short, a rougher-looking beard threaded with grey, deep-set green eyes under heavy brows watching warily as Caleb nodded to them and walked to the other end of the counter.

He'd been trained to identify threats at first glance, and the two men standing there both rang his internal alarms, although he wasn't sure why. Something about the way they stood, alert and ready, he thought.

"Can I help you?"

Caleb turned and looked at the man facing him across the counter. In his mid-thirties, overweight, thick brown hair flopping over his forehead, his skin very pale. Gamer and computer nerd, Caleb assessed instantly, looking at the man's hands as they rested on the counter, smooth and unmarked, the nails a little long and completely clean. His mouth was wide, the lips thick and fleshy, surrounded by a thin and straggling goatee. Pinned to his shirt was the company name-tag: Bryce Lachlan.

"Yeah, I hope so, Bryce." Caleb leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low. "I'm a PI, working for the Beckerman family about the death of their daughter."

Bryce raised an eyebrow sceptically, the amber-coloured eyes behind the tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses mocking. "Thought the police were handling that."

"They are. So am I," he replied coolly, opening his coat to get his identification out, allowing the clerk to see the gun in the shoulder-holster beneath it at the same time. "And I've got more time than they do."

Bryce seemed to notice the gun, which was a relief, Caleb thought, since his ID was fake.

"You worked with Mrs Waylan for awhile?"

"Yeah. She was working here part-time when I started, a month ago," the clerk confirmed, his attitude more helpful. "She was a nice woman, she was friendly."

Caleb heard the distinction in Bryce's voice, the implication that others were not. "Did Mrs Waylan have any enemies here?"

"No, nothing like that. Just she was friendly to everybody." He glanced sidelong at the woman that the two men were talking to, and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "That bitch started the same time I did. Amy was nice to her, but you could see that once Kari saw Amy's husband, she was gunning for him."

Frowning, Caleb glanced down the counter. The woman was very tall, slender, with jet black hair and smooth olive skin. She seemed to feel his gaze, glancing up toward him. He looked back to Bryce.

"She tried to seduce Mr Waylan?"

"Yeah, half the time flirting in front of Amy," Bryce said, with a half-shrug indicating his inability to understand the mystery of women. "Amy laughed it off, told me she trusted her husband and a couple of days before she … died, she seemed to patch it up with Kari – at least Kari apologised and they were okay." He shook his head. "Chicks, man, I'll never figure them out."

Caleb nodded. He'd already revised his theories about Bryce, who was no more capable of killing someone than he was of getting a date.

"Thanks for your time." He turned to go, looking down the counter at the woman. From her body language, she was going to be talking to the men for a while longer, leaning toward the younger man, looking up at him from under long dark lashes. He turned and walked out, missing the speculative look that the older man gave him.

He drove from house to house for the rest of the afternoon, talking to Amy's friends and acquaintances, getting no further with his enquiries. Coming out of the last house, he looked down the street, and saw a black car pull in to the kerb one house down, the same two men getting out of it. He crossed the street quickly and got into his car, watching them as they walked up to the porch of the house he'd just been in, knocking at the door.

Undercover cops? Following the same trail he was? If that were the case, he felt better about the effort the police were putting in. He watched the door open, Sally Mason looking from one man to the other and then down at the identification they were obviously showing her. Her face looked puzzled and she waved her hand to the street, both men turning, their gazes following the gesture. Caleb slid down in his seat fast, his imagination furnishing him with Sally's nasal drawl, asking how many investigators were working on Amy's case, anyway? He lifted his eyes above the door frame in time to see the two men enter the house and the door close.

He needed to find out who those two were, he thought, starting the engine. He didn't want the cops to notice him. They might remember him when the body of Amy's killer turned up.

* * *

John pulled the door of the Impala open and slid into the driver's seat, flipping the visor down against the setting sun, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

"He's obviously following the same trail as we are." He looked at Jim.

"Yeah, it might be an idea to find out who he is before he screws everything up." Jim nodded. They'd had to do some fast talking to get two of Mrs Waylan's friends to open up to them, both women having just told someone else who claimed to be a private investigator about her relationships.

John shook his head. It was a diversion of their effort they didn't need right now. "What do you think? Any of them setting off your alarms?"

"Just the one." Jim leaned back against the seat. "The others are just friends and acquaintances, they have no idea."

"I agree." John opened his journal, his eyes skimming over the notes he'd made about the case. "What do you think she is?"

"That is something I don't know." Jim sighed and closed his eyes. "Let's head back to the motel – I want to call Bobby and see if he's got anything in that reference library of his. And Rufus, he worked in the East for a while, he might have heard of something that fits."

John nodded and started the car, pulling out into the street. "All right. I'm going to have a look at that bar again. It was their local, and most of the people we've talked to frequented it as well. Maybe someone saw something."

Jim laughed. "Good luck with that. I'll meet you there after I've spoken to Bobby and Rufus. The food's not too bad."

"Since when have you been fussy about food, Jim?" John threw a quizzical look at him.

"Since I started getting old enough to get indigestion from most of the stuff they serve in places like that," Jim retorted.

* * *

John pulled into the lot of the bar, locking the car and walking across to the door. The air was cooling off now that the sun had finally set, and the last of the light was dying from the sky, the neighbourhood flushed in rose and dim gold. Against the purple-shadowed front of the building, the bar's neon signs stood out, blinking and flashing invitingly.

Inside, the bar was still warm with the day's heat, filled with a couple of dozen people sitting in the booths along the walls and on the stools along the counter and a small group exchanging good-natured insults at the single pool table to the right of the counter. He walked to a seat at the end of the bar, with a good view of the front and rear exits, and a wall against his back. The bartender gave up her conversation with one of the regulars immediately, walking over to him, with a smile that told him she recognised him.

"Back again. What can I get you?"

"Yeah, can't stay away. I'll have a beer, thanks." He looked around the room slowly, casually. Most of the people were regulars, he'd seen them the previous night and earlier in the day. His slowly roving gaze stopped at a table tucked into the corner behind the pool table, recognising the buzz cut and the thin face of the man they'd been running into or behind all day.

Studying him discreetly, he noted the press to his clothes, the straight back as he sat in the chair. Ex-military, he thought, probably infantry back from the Gulf. He didn't look quite confident enough to be an officer, but he lacked the air of obedience that John associated with most of the grunts he'd met. Something in between. Or someone who'd been given difficult jobs and had succeeded at them.

The bartender set an icy bottle on the bar in front of him and he looked back at her. She was pretty, in her late twenties maybe, dark hair streaked with different shades of red and brown and gold and pulled back for work. He could feel her interest in him, but it wasn't mutual. She was too young, too much of a civilian, to stir him. Didn't mean that she wouldn't have information he could use, though, and he leaned on the bar, closer to her, smiling warmly into her eyes.

"What's your name?"

She smiled back at him, her heart thumping a little too fast, the beat visible in the open neck of her shirt. "Maggie. What's yours?"

"John." He let his eyes wander slowly from her face to her chest and back up again. "You saw a lot of the Waylans here?"

She pouted at him. "Not more cop questions!"

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged, leaning back and looking around the room again. Maggie bit her lip and sighed. The cop was the best thing she'd seen in here in the last six months, and if his interest wasn't all in her, she guessed she could put up with that for whatever he might be offering.

"All right, yes, they were in a couple of nights a week," she told him with a disgruntled huff, leaning closer to him across the bar. "Nights off, Amy called them. Her mom would take the kids and they could do whatever they wanted for the evening."

John turned back to her, hiding a smile at her abrupt capitulation. "Did they ever come alone, one or the other by themselves?"

"Steve did," Maggie said slowly as she thought about it. "Last few weeks, he came in after work for a couple of drinks on his own."

"Did you see him talking to anyone? Or meeting anyone?" John's attention sharpened at her change of expression.

"Last few times he was talking to the new girl at the print place," she said, frowning as she tried to remember the details. "They didn't come in together or anything. He'd be sitting at the bar, and she came in later. He'd buy her a drink or they'd just talk."

"Did they ever leave together?"

"No, she usually left first. He'd leave between five and ten minutes later." She glanced down the bar, giving another short huff of annoyance as a customer waved for her attention. "I'll be right back."

John nodded absently, sipping his beer. It changed things. He looked over to the younger man sitting on his own at the corner table again. He was about to go over when the door opened and the woman herself walked in. She'd changed into a short black skirt, sleeveless beaded top and heels, her long hair down and loose over her shoulders and back, dark eyes made up and a deep red lipstick outlining her mouth.

She stood in the entry, looking around the room slowly, then walked to the bar, drawing a lot of male gazes from around the room. She was aware of it, hips swinging slowly as she moved.

John watched her smile at the man seated next to her. He saw a movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head, as the young man from the corner table approached the bar, taking the seat on the other side of Kari.

Maggie pulled a beer from the fridge for the young man, glancing at John as she did, her lips compressing when she realised that he was looking at the woman seated in front of her.

"Can I buy you a drink?" the young man asked the woman, who turned to look at him. She nodded, her voice low, too low for John to hear what she said. He nodded and they took their drinks back to the small table.

Jim came in the front door as the two sat down, walking toward the bar. He sat on the stool next to John, his back to the room.

"I see that Kari is making new friends."

John nodded. "Maggie here says that Kari was spending some time with Steve, the few weeks before he was killed."

"That's interesting as well," Jim said, catching Maggie's eye and raising a finger. "I got hold of Bobby, he told me that in India there's a creature known as a vetala, which has two long fangs for making puncture wounds in a victim's throat and draining all their blood."

John turned to him, one brow raised. "That so?"

"Yep." Jim smiled at Maggie as she brought him a beer, setting it on the counter in front of him. "Thank you, my dear."

He waited until she'd gone to serve someone else before continuing. "And Rufus agreed. He hunted them in Sri Lanka, fifteen years ago. Said they're very strong, like vampires, and that they disable their victims with venom, before taking them away and draining them over a period of days."

"And did they mention how we kill them?"

"Silver. To the heart."

John shook his head. "That's about all we needed to know, isn't it?" He looked back to the table, watching the young man talking to Kari. She was sitting with her back to the bar, and he watched the man's face, trying to judge the conversation from his expressions.

"I don't think we'll dig up anything else in the time we've got." Jim tipped his bottle up and swallowed. "She going after the kid?"

"Looks like it." John turned his head to look at Jim, his peripheral vision able to see the corner. "I don't know what his story is, she came in before I got chance to talk to him. But I think he's military, infantry maybe."

"Back from the Gulf?" Jim was using the reflective surface of a cocktail shaker to see what was happening behind him. It was an old trick but useful, but he realised that his vision wasn't improving; he could see the table, but only just.

"Yeah."

"Think he had a personal connection to the victims?"

"That would be my guess." John rubbed the corner of his eye. "Great welcome home."

Jim straightened up as he saw the two standing and walking around the table. "Show time."

Maggie walked over to them. "Can I get you gents another?"

"No," John said, watching Kari and the soldier leave.

"Thanks," Jim added, sliding off the seat.

"John, I'm off at eleven!" Maggie looked after them as they walked swiftly across the room. "If you're interested," she added under her breath.

They peeled off to the left and right as they came out of the door, walking fast along the parked cars in the shadowy lot. John started to run as he heard an engine turn over.

* * *

Caleb could feel his consciousness slipping away. She'd kissed him, when they'd reached the car, and her mouth had tasted sweet at first, then the aftertaste had kicked in and it had been dry and bitter. He'd slumped against the car, and she'd lifted and opened the door, putting him onto the seat.

_Lifted_ him.

He shook his head slowly. How'd she do that? He saw someone beside the car, and felt the rush of cool night air over his face as the door was opened next to him, and he was leaning out, falling out, being pulled out …

* * *

John released the handful of the man's shirt and jacket, as the car reversed fast away from them. He crouched down, his fingers going to the young man's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, beating slowly but strongly. He watched the lot, waiting for Jim to bring the car around.

Jim pulled around in front of them, getting out and opening the back door. He took the man's legs as John lifted him into the back, pushing them into the car and closing the door when the man toppled over along the long seat.

"She's rabbiting," John said tersely as he slid into the driver's seat, putting the Impala in gear and pulling out of the lot onto the street.

"Can't be helped." Jim looked over the back of the front seat at the man unconscious in the back. "You couldn't let her take him."

"No."

"Take him back to the motel?"

John nodded. "Bobby or Rufus mention how long the effect of the venom lasts for?"

"About an hour. Long enough to get the victim somewhere safe and trussed up."

"Why'd she do the Waylans in their own home?" John frowned suddenly, glancing sideways at Jim.

"I guess one of them must have mentioned that the grandmother was looking after the children for a week." Jim pulled out his notebook and flicked back through the pages to his notes of the interview. "That's why they weren't found for so long. They were supposed to be going on a holiday together."

"The husband. Didn't get a chance to tell you the details but the bartender said that the last few weeks, the husband was drinking alone after work, and Kari was meeting him there on most of the nights. They'd leave separately but no more than five or ten minutes apart."

Jim rolled his eyes. "And I thought "Fatal Attraction" was enough of a lesson to married men."

John snorted. "I thought you knew human nature?"

"Too well. I'm forever being disappointed that people aren't smarter."

* * *

John pulled into the motel lot and reversed the car into the slot in front of the room. They carried the man into the room and laid him on the bed, John lifting an eyelid, looking at the dilation of the pupil. "He's going to be out for a bit longer."

Jim unscrewed the cap from the whiskey bottle and poured an inch into each of the two glasses.

"Did she get a good look at you, when you opened the door?" he asked, pushing one of the glasses to the opposite side of the table.

"I don't know." John sat down at the table and picked up the glass. "She wasn't going fast when I pulled him out, but she sped up a lot after that. It was pretty dark in that lot." He watched Jim sit down opposite. "Why?"

"She seemed pretty interested at the printing place." Jim raised an eyebrow at him.

John smiled reluctantly. "You want me to be bait?"

"I'm open to any other ideas."

"Lot of ifs." John thought about it. "If she didn't recognise me, if she's still at work in the morning, if she hasn't left town already."

"Yep," Jim agreed readily, tossing back the whiskey. "All those ifs."

"Do you think she'd try it in the day?"

"I think she might need to feed again. It's been almost four weeks since she took the Waylans. And she didn't try to make friends with that one," he pointed out, gesturing toward the bed. "She just got right down to business."

John nodded. "Yeah."

"I've got an idea about protecting yourself as well," Jim added, looking at John as he poured another shot.

They both turned as the man on the bed groaned, lifting an arm weakly. John put his glass down, getting up and walking to the bed.

"Take it easy, you've been drugged," he said, taking the man's wrist and feeling for his pulse. It was strong, faster now as the venom was broken down in his system.

"Where …" The young man opened his eyes, squinting against the overhead light, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "… am I?"

"Water, Jim," John said quietly to the priest, leaning a little closer to the young man as he looked at his eyes. "You're safe, for the moment. You're in a motel on Fort Street."

Jim brought a glass of water to the bed, and John slid his arm under the man's shoulders, lifting him slightly so that he could drink. He swallowed several mouthfuls, rinsing them around in his mouth first. Nodding when he'd had enough, he tried to sit, swaying a little. John pulled him forward, stacking the pillows behind his back.

"Who are you?" He leaned back against the pillows, his eyes rolling from John to Jim.

"John Winchester." John gestured to Jim. "This is Jim Murphy."

"Caleb … Beider." Caleb lifted his hand to shade his eyes. "What the hell happened?"

"What do you remember?" Jim pulled a chair to the side of the bed.

"I remember talking to the woman from the print shop." Caleb frowned, rubbing his thumb against the bridge of his nose as the details trickled back slowly. "Her name was …"

"Kari," John supplied. Caleb nodded.

"Yeah. She was at the bar, I bought her a drink, thinking I could get her alone to ask her about Amy."

"Amy Waylan? Did you know her?" Jim leaned forward slightly.

"Used to go out with her in high school," Caleb told him, shaking his head slightly. "Didn't last, but she didn't deserve to die like that. I …"

Jim looked at John, eyebrow raised. John shook his head, waiting.

"I had a dream about it," Caleb said softly. "In country, must have been months before it happened." He looked at John. "I didn't think it was real. I should have called her, warned her, but I didn't think it was real."

John nodded, understanding what had driven Caleb Beider to get involved. "It wasn't your fault, Caleb. You can't warn someone when you have a dream, she wouldn't have believed you."

"I know, but I should have tried." He closed his eyes. "I should have at least tried."

* * *

Caleb sat at the table, fingers shredding the paper napkin that had come with his burger without realising what he was doing. He looked from John to Jim.

"Monster? For real?"

"Very much for real, I'm afraid." Jim wadded up the wrapping from his food and tossed it overhand into the trash can in the kitchenette.

"And these … vetala … they, uh, drink people's blood?" Caleb asked, looking down at the pile of shredded paper next to his hands. "I thought that was vampires?"

"Yeah, well they do too, but this one is a vetala." John sipped his beer, glancing at Jim. "First we'd heard of them as well."

"But you do this for a living? Hunt monsters?" Caleb looked up, his brow wrinkled as he tried to take it in. Neither man seemed mentally incapacitated. Neither seemed to be joking.

John snorted derisively. "We don't make a living from it. Call it an expensive vocation."

"Even so," Jim said briskly. "Tomorrow we'll take it out."

"I'm in." Caleb looked up.

Jim shook his head. "No, son, you're not."

"It killed Amy. I owe her for not trying harder," Caleb said, his expression hardening as he stared at Jim. "I have to be in this."

"It's not that simple, Caleb," John said quietly. "You wouldn't expect a civilian to go to war with you, would you?"

Caleb turned his head to look at him. "I'm not a civilian. I can handle myself."

"In our line of work, you are a civilian," John said, shaking his head. "This isn't about guns and bullets and front lines. You have to know what to do, because this creature is strong – stronger than you and me combined – and lethal. There's no room for learning on the job here, no margin for errors."

"You said you hadn't even heard of one before."

"But I've hunted a lot of other things, and Jim's hunted more," John said firmly. "Look, I really can appreciate how you're feeling. I've been there. But you need to trust me when I tell you that you do not want to get into this life."

"That's my choice, isn't it?"

Jim cleared his throat. "Where'd you serve, son?"

"First Infantry." Caleb looked at him. "Not with the rest of the grunts. I have some special skills, had some assignments."

John glanced at Jim. "Assassinations?"

Caleb's mouth lifted at one corner slightly. "They don't call it that anymore."

"Long distance?"

"Yeah."

"Got your gear here?"

Jim looked at John, frowning slightly. "I'm not sure that's relevant."

"Just curious." John looked back at Caleb. "Do you?"

"Yeah, in my car." He looked from John to Jim. "Why?"

"What calibre does your primary take?"

"7.62 NATO."

John nodded, then turned to Jim. "I've got a Winchester custom rifle for long range. I made up two dozen silver bullets for it. Those'll fit his rifle. It wouldn't hurt to have a long range backup."

Jim opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, knowing that John was right.

"He'll be out of the way, and he might be able to help." John looked back to Caleb. "You better be good."

"I'm good." The statement was utterly without pride or arrogance, and John smiled slowly.

"Well, if she hasn't skipped already, we should have a look around the print shop, see if there's anywhere good to set this up."

Caleb nodded. "Let's do it."

* * *

John walked into the print shop just after opening the next morning. He saw the male employee, Lachlan, at the back, loading paper into the machines and wondered if they had missed her, if she'd taken off in the night.

She came down the aisle between the rows of copiers and printers a moment later, a large coffee in a takeout cup in one hand, the local newspaper in the other. He walked up to the counter and smiled at her as she looked up.

There was no hesitation in her movements or alarm in her eyes. She smiled back at him, setting her coffee and paper on the desk behind the counter top, and raised an eyebrow.

"What can I do for the FBI today?"

John leaned against the counter, and looked at her. "Actually, I'm not working right now. I was wondering if you were free for lunch?"

She tilted her head slightly to one side, considering him. "As it happens, I am. What exactly did you have in mind?"

He gave a slightly nervous laugh. "Whatever you're up for, I guess."

"That's vague. I could be up for quite a bit?" She leaned forward and looked into his eyes, the tip of her tongue circling her lips. He looked at her mouth and cleared his throat.

"What time?"

"Twelve." She leaned back, and picked up her coffee. "Don't be late."

"I won't." He took a few steps backwards, lifting his hand, then turned and walked out the door.

He walked down the block and crossed the street, turning down another street. The Impala was parked under a tree a little way down, and he opened the door and slid in with a sigh of relief.

"She's there. And we have a date. Twelve o'clock."

"You old smoothy, you." Jim grinned at him. "Do you think she'll buy going out the back way?"

"Yeah, I'll park the car there and tell her." He felt his heartbeat settle to a more regular pace. Pretending with monsters was a hell of a gig, he preferred stalking them and shooting them to having to interact with them.

* * *

Jim leaned on the car's window frame, looking at him. "Ready?"

"Yeah." John started the engine. "I'll see you in about twenty minutes."

"You will. Be careful."

John nodded and pulled out, turning right at the end of the street and circling the three blocks to come up behind the print shop and pull into the lot at the rear. He got out, locking the doors and walked up the narrow pathway to the street, turning left to go into the shop. He glanced at his watch – eleven fifty nine. Right on time.

He took a deep breath as he opened the door, walking across the counter and looking around for Kari. After a minute, she came out, and smiled at him. He noticed that her smile wasn't reaching her eyes, but perhaps it never had.

"Car's around the back," John said, looking down the line of printers. "Can we go that way?"

"No problem. Bryce's in the office and Ralph never comes in until after four, we won't get in trouble."

He felt a strange sense of doubling, and wondered briefly if she was playing him, as he was playing her. It didn't matter, one way or the other, he thought. In the seam of his jacket pocket was a long, silver stiletto blade, and it would be in her heart in a few minutes, no matter what she had planned.

He followed her around the counter and down through the machines to the back hallway. She put her hand on the back door knob, and turned back to him, her arm snaking around his neck and pulling him down to her mouth. He fought back as her lips touched his, but her strength was unbelievable, like fighting a bull – or an anaconda – and her tongue slid into his mouth, sweetness flooding his taste buds, arousal fluxing through his groin. He fought free of the sensations, pulling the knife from his pocket, aware that he was a little slow, hoping it wouldn't matter.

Her other hand flashed out and gripped his wrist as he brought the blade up, angled to penetrate her rib cage and slide into her heart, and he felt the sickening sensation of the bone being snapped, his fingers springing open, heard the small clatter as the knife fell to the floor.

"Tsk, tsk. That's no way for a gentleman to behave with a lady, Mr Winchester," she said reprovingly.

He tried to focus, but the sweetness in his mouth had turned to ash and gall, and his vision was closing in, blackness seeping at the edges, his muscles losing control, becoming limp. The vetala stood next to him, catching him as he sagged toward the floor and pulled his arm over her shoulder, her left arm wrapped tightly around his waist, his ribs creaking in protest at the strength of her grip. She was, he realised blearily, just before consciousness disappeared entirely, supporting his entire weight on one arm.

Kari glanced at him, seeing his eyelids close, his head drop to his chest, and she smiled. She would make him last a long, long time, she thought, opening the door and heading for her car.

* * *

Standing in the dark doorway of the building on the other side of the lot, Jim's breath hissed out as he saw John's head lolling on his chest. Time for plan B. He glanced up at the roofline across the street and angled the small pocket mirror he held to the sun. He flashed it once, and got a tiny answering flash from the roof.

* * *

Caleb took a long, slow breath as he set the small dental mirror on the ground beside him. He lay full length, resting on his elbows, and the M40A3 rifle in front of him was already positioned for the parking lot, the scope set for the woman's car.

He could feel a small breeze against his cheek, and turned the screw of the scope a sixteenth to accommodate it, then set his eye against the lens and looked down into the lot, seeing the woman carrying John to her car, his head rolling slightly as she walked. He adjusted the focal length, bringing her into sharp focus. At this distance, there was a very high chance of over penetration. He was going to have to wait until she turned enough so that when the bullet exited it would go into the car, not into the man she was holding.

He'd already weighed the cartridges and adjusted the aim for the extra weight of the silver. The range was six hundred yards and the shot posed no significant level of difficulty. The breeze was the only thing he had to worry about.

He watched as Kari unlocked the car door, turning her body as she lifted John to one side to open the door fully. The small muscles that controlled his fingers tightened slowly on the trigger, easing it back.

Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, his mind said, over and over, the words meaningless to him, the concentration it brought laser precise. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. It was the mantra he'd learned in training and it ran through his mind like the tick of a metronome whenever he looked down a scope at a target.

His finger pulled back smoothly and the bullet fired. He watched it hit her back, the entry hole precisely at the bottom of the scapula, and a quarter inch to the left of the spine. The sound came a fraction of a second later, the flat crack loud in the quiet area, but easily mistaken for a more prosaic noise.

She fell instantly, John falling with her. Caleb saw Jim running to them and he pulled back, his finger slipping out of the trigger guard, his breathing returning to normal. He started to pull down the gun automatically, packing it away in the padded steel case he carried it in.

* * *

_**Blue Earth, Minnesota.**_

"I have to tell you, I thought that was highly impressive," Jim said to Caleb as he poured whiskey into three glasses.

John grinned. "I'm sorry not to have seen it, but your timing couldn't have been better."

Caleb's mouth curved into a small smile. "No problem."

Jim sat down and picked up his glass. "What are you going to do now, Caleb?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Can't use what I've been trained for. I made a lot of contacts, in the Army, and overseas. I'll have to see what comes up, I guess."

John exchanged a pointed glance with the priest. "What kind of contacts?"

"Military contacts." Caleb looked up at him, his face expressionless, but a small glint of humour in his eyes.

"Better keep in touch, then. Never know what we might need," John said to Jim, the side of his mouth quirking up.

Caleb looked at them, wondering if he could persuade either of them to teach him about hunting – their kind of hunting. The sad thing about being a soldier was that when you were in a war, the only thing you wanted was to come home and forget it; but once you were home, everyday life seemed … lacking.

He thought of lying on that roof, knowing that the man he was watching was relying on him, on all his skill and training, to make it out alive. That's what he wanted. To be needed again.

* * *

"_What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal."_

_~ Albert Pike_


	12. Chapter 12 Under A Blood Moon

**Chapter 12 Under A Blood Moon**

* * *

_It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.  
~ William Shakespeare_

* * *

_**1993. Boulder, Colorado.**_

Sam pushed back the hair that kept falling onto his forehead and pulled his books out of his duffle, looking irritably around the small bedroom. Like most of the motels they inhabited, it was only just scraping in on the clean part, and the furniture and décor was dispirited and limp, the soft furnishings threadbare and discoloured, the carpet thin and gritty, the walls grey with the residual miasma of the people who'd stayed here before them.

"How long are we supposed to be here again?"

"Don't know. Till we finish the job." Dean was lying on the single bed closest to the door, listening – or trying to listen – to Zep on the Walkman. The machine had almost reached the end of its life. New batteries didn't help, there was something wrong with the motor. It was killing the songs. He switched it off sharply before the tapes got stretched.

"Anyway, what do you care?" he asked his brother, rolling over and sitting up.

"I don't." Sam piled the books onto the nightstand and kicked the bag back under the bed. "Just wish we could've stayed at Bobby's instead of being dragged along."

Dean frowned at him. "Dad needs us, Sam. Bobby's hunting down in Omaha with Rufus, anyway."

"Dad doesn't need us, Dean. He gets along fine without us when it suits him."

Dean stared at his little brother. It wasn't the first time Sam had sounded off about their father or their life, but there was an edge to his voice, something that was sharp and hard.

"What's eating you?" He stood up, picking up his jacket from the end of the bed. "Dad's doing his best for us, and this is what you throw back at him?"

"Nothing." Sam pitched himself onto the bed, rolling onto his side, his back to his brother. He was just fed up, tired of travelling, tired of having no home, tired of making new friends at every school and leaving them, tired of trying to keep up with school work that he enjoyed, but never had time to really master.

"Better adjust that attitude, Sammy." Dean pulled the jacket on and opened the door, turning back to look at his brother's hunched shoulders. "You got five minutes to sulk, then we gotta check over the gear."

Sam buried his face deeper in the pillow, and ignored him. He heard the door close and opened his eyes. Hunting monsters. Not being able to tell anyone about it. Learning to shoot. Learning to fight. Learning the lore, the myths, the legends. Cleaning guns. Loading rounds. Digging up graves. Burning bones … he just wanted a normal life. Dad and Dean, they didn't need him. The two of them were happy as pigs in mud to be discussing a case, poring over old books, looking for clues, shooting things in the dark. But why did he have to be here?

He knew the answer. But he couldn't accept it. Wouldn't accept it.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. Another sagging, stained motel ceiling. He wondered if any other kid in America knew as many motel ceilings as he did. They all kind of merged into one after awhile. Like the one he was looking at.

He sat up slowly and looked at the door. Dean would have his ass if he didn't get out there and help with the cleaning. He loved his brother, and his father. He just hated the life they lived.

* * *

Dean turned as he heard the key in the lock. The bags were ready, zipped shut and waiting by the door, every piece in them clean and gleaming with gun oil. The scent of solvent and oil hung in the room. It was impossible to just wash the stuff off, it had wear off, like gasoline. He liked it, it triggered memories that he treasured, when he'd been younger and his father had done the cleaning, holding him as he'd shown his son how to clean the barrel, and the chambers.

He pushed the thoughts away a little impatiently as he watched his father come into the room, kicking the door shut with his heel, one arm full of books, the other holding a couple of paper sacks of takeout.

"Finished everything?" John looked at his oldest son. Dean nodded, gesturing to the bags.

"Yeah, all done." He stood up and walked to the table as his father set down the books to one side, the food to the other.

"Where's your brother?"

Dean looked at the bedroom door. "Yo! Sammy! Food!"

The door opened and Sam came out, his hands and arms red from trying to scrub the oil off them. He walked to the table and sat down, picking up a book and looking at it.

"Myth and Legend of the Werewolf," he read. Dean's eyes lit up as he turned to his father.

"Werewolf?"

John nodded, sitting down opposite Sam and pulling burgers from the paper sack. "Sit down and eat."

Dean slid into the chair, taking the burger and unwrapping it quickly. He tilted his head to read the titles of the other books as he took a bite. All of them were about werewolves.

"You can read it after we eat, Sam."

Sam put the book down and picked up a burger, unwrapping it and biting into it absently.

"In fact, you're both hitting the books. That's the bulk of the existing lore about werewolves, most of it speculation or just imagination, but you need a grounding in the basics." John gestured to the pile of books, wadding up the wrapping from his burger and put it back into the paper sack. He pulled a file from the bottom of the stack and opened it.

"Last month four people were killed, by what the police are calling a wild animal attack. They were camping, hiking or picnicking in the wilderness area west of Chautauqua. Bodies were torn up, partially eaten, and the hearts were missing." He looked at them, pausing for emphasis. "A werewolf always takes the heart. The deaths occurred on the nights of the 30th, 31st August and 1st September."

Dean looked at him. "So the next attacks will start on the 29th? That's two days."

"Yeah. So get reading." John glanced at Sam and stood up. "You'll be coming with me, Dean. Sam, you'll be staying here."

* * *

Sam sat in the car, reading, while his father and brother went into the police station. His father had been right. The werewolf books _were_ full of speculation, he thought in frustration, the authors constantly veering between embracing the mythology, and attempting to explain the phenomena in psychological or medical terms. He shut the book and threw it onto the seat, scowling. Either believe in it or don't, he thought irritably, don't try to do both.

Inside the station, John stood by the counter, talking to the policewoman who'd been on duty the last night of the attacks. Dean sat in a chair against the wall, suppressing his desire to yawn.

"What time did you get the call, Detective?" John asked.

"It was past one o'clock," she answered, a slight line appearing between her brows as she thought back. "The nearest houses are actually about a half mile away, they heard the animal howling."

"Get many wolves around here?"

She shook her head. "There are no wild populations in Colorado, the nearest would be the reintroduced grey wolves in Wyoming."

"So what was howling?"

"We get coyote here, especially around the outer suburbs. Most people don't know the difference between the howls of one species and another."

"Coyotes didn't attack those people." John looked at her.

"No, but there are plenty of cougar in the foothills and the coyotes would gather around if a cougar makes a kill."

John shook his head. "Cougar don't spree kill like that."

"True for an adult, but it's possible we're dealing with several younger animals," she countered, then looked away with a shrug, as if she knew how specious that argument was. "That's the explanation we have, Agent Paige."

He nodded slowly. Another officer walked up the detective, looking curiously at them. The detective glanced at him, nodding, and turned back to John.

"What's the FBI's interest in wild animal attacks?" The officer leaned on his elbow on the counter, his voice even but as John looked at him, he saw animosity in the man's pale green eyes.

"Just following up on the couple from Ohio," John said easily, "Crossing the t's, dotting the i's, you know how it is."

The man nodded, smiling slightly, though the smile never reached his eyes. "Bureaucracy, enough to drive anyone mad." He turned to the detective. "Carol, captain wants to see you in five."

The detective nodded. "If there's anything else we can help with, Agent, let me know."

John straightened up, nodding. "Thank you. I will." He glanced at the officer briefly.

"Were you on call that night, Officer?"

He shook his head. "I was off sick that week, caught the flu fishing up in the mountains at the beginning of the month and couldn't shake it." He sniffed hard twice, then turned away, following the detective through the door to the office.

John turned away from the counter, looking at Dean. "Come on."

* * *

"Dean."

He looked up, hand flicking out without thought to catch the gun his father threw to him.

"We'll take the Remington, and the handguns. Shotguns just piss them off. Mags loaded with the silver bullets, and pack an extra load for each gun."

Dean turned the 9mm gun over in his hands. It was the Taurus 92, the magazine holding ten rounds plus one in the chamber, lighter than the Colt his father used. He'd been practising with it for a few months now, his hands finally big enough to manage the weight and kick. He ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber, pushing each of the rounds out and setting them aside, then reached for the box of silver rounds and loading it carefully. He checked the safety and slapped the magazine in, racking the slide and setting the gun into the gear bag, then took out the spare magazine and loaded it the same way.

John watched him discreetly, his head bowed over his own gun. He had a feeling that Mary would have chopped him into dog food if she'd seen her sons matter-of-factly loading, cleaning and firing the weapons they carried in the trunk of the car, but he'd always been careful to inculcate a huge respect for the guns in both boys, and he was satisfied that they had both learned the lessons well. Dean handled their ordnance with familiarity, but without ever forgetting that they were weapons, not toys, and taking every precaution to ensure they were safe. He'd shot up over the last year, and had started to grow out, shoulders broadening, his chest deepening. He still struggled after his father on training runs, the forty-pound pack weighing him down, but he was getting stronger, faster.

There was no easy monster to introduce his oldest boy to hunting. Dean had been with him on several ghost hunts now, but the creatures that hunted the night were a different matter. Shifters, werewolves, vampires, vetala, crocotta … all were difficult, some easier to kill, but harder to hunt. He still had nightmares of what had happened to Geny, and it increased his worry about taking Dean out against a werewolf. He sighed inwardly. There wasn't a choice in the matter. He couldn't risk taking it on by himself, and of all the creatures the boys would learn to hunt, at least the werewolf was highly territorial and hunted alone.

He looked at his son. "We'll take the rifle, but there's a good chance we won't be able to get the shot at any distance."

Dean looked up, his fingers carrying on with their work of loading the magazine, his attention focussed on his father.

"It has to be a heart shot. Anywhere else slows them down a little but mostly just pisses them off," John continued, racking the slide on the Colt, and setting it down. "Werewolves are fast. They have much better senses than we do, and it'll smell and hear us from a long way off, if we're not very, very careful."

Dean nodded, his eyes fixed on his father's face.

"They're strong, maybe three or four times stronger than a man. They can see perfectly in the dark, and if they bite you, that's the end of it." He saw the words sinking into Dean, saw the understanding of what would happen if one of them was bitten.

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out two necklaces. They were made of silver medallions, each joined together by a double link of chain, making the necklace flexible. He stood up, and took one of them to the bed where Dean sat, lifting it and putting it around his son's neck, leaning close to fasten the clasp at the back. The medallions, about the size of dimes, sat flat against his skin, encircling the base of his neck.

"Jim made up these last year for something else," John told him, returning to the table and fastening the second necklace around his own neck. "But it's something to make the monster think twice about taking a bite there." He looked carefully at Dean. "Don't kid yourself that's much protection, because it's not, but it might help."

Dean reached up and felt the smooth flat disks against his skin, nodding seriously. The one thing that all the lore agreed on was that a single bite was enough. There was no coming back. His imagination was too good, he'd already seen the possibilities. He clamped down on it now, forcing himself to remember that he was hunting with his father, that nothing would happen while he was around.

Sam came out of the bedroom, depositing the books he'd been reading back onto the table. He sat down opposite his father, and looked down at the bullets stacked neatly on the table. John glanced at him, then passed him the magazine for the rifle, pushing the box of silver bullets closer to him.

"Werewolf isn't like a ghost. There's no protection against it getting close to you, except these." He held up the gun. "So we're relying on our abilities to get it before it gets us." He looked from Sam to Dean. Both boys nodded, their expressions solemn.

This was really it, Dean thought to himself, a flicker of nervousness running along his nerve endings, jittering against the thoughts he refused to let in. A real hunt. Against something that was much bigger, more powerful, more deadly than himself. He caught that train of thought before it could go any further.

Out to the west, thunder rumbled softly, the heat of the day and the dryness of the mountains creating a vast pool of static in the atmosphere.

* * *

Dean woke early, smelling smoke. He threw back the covers and bolted from the bedroom, seeing his father standing by the west facing windows, the curtains pulled back. Through the window, he saw columns of smoke rising from the mountains, billowing in great clouds above the Flatirons and the more distant peaks beyond them.

"Lightning storm last night," John said, without turning around. "Set the forest on fire."

"Will it get closer?" Dean walked across the room.

"Apparently not. Wind's going around to the north east, it'll back burn unless it shifts again."

"Does it change anything? Our plan?" He turned slightly to look at his father's profile.

"No. The moon is full tonight." John turned away from the window and walked to the kitchen counter, lifting the glass pot from the coffee maker, and pouring himself a cup. "It'll be out there, and so will we."

* * *

The day dragged interminably, the smell of smoke dissipating as the wind blew it away from the city, but the sunshine was flat, metallic and oily-looking from the ash and particles in the air, and the city was still on alert, in case the wind changed and brought the fire down to them. Four thousand acres had already burned.

Sam lay on his bed, his thoughts chasing themselves around the familiar track. Rosalita Helena Hernandez. Huge dark eyes in a pretty face. Black curls framing it. The pink ribbon that she wore every day. Swimming in the river. Furtively holding hands as they snuck away from the others, walking down under the willows along the river, talking about the stars, the insects they saw, watching a mother fox and her cubs playing outside their den. He sighed.

They'd spent six weeks in a little town outside of Santa Fe while John had been laid up waiting for a broken leg to heal. Six weeks of waking up in the same bed each morning, his books arranged neatly on the shelf next to it. Six weeks of normality, cooking real food, cleaning up, looking after their father, the guns packed away in the trunk of the car, not looked at, not thought about. Six weeks of late summer, long days, warm nights and spending his time playing with the other kids, scratch baseball games, hunting for fish and frogs and lizards along the river, swimming, riding their bikes over the hills. He sighed again.

It had been a taste of what life could be like if they weren't hunting. He wondered if the taste would have been so tempting to him if Rosalita hadn't been there, but she had, and he couldn't separate the idyllic peace of their time there from his budding feelings about the girl.

What it had done was to crystallise the general dissatisfaction he had with their life into a tangible dream. A dream of getting out, going his own way, having a home and a family and maybe most importantly, an education, that would ensure he didn't need to stay. He couldn't quite bring himself to imagining actually leaving his father and brother just yet. But he was sure that he would be able to one day.

* * *

Dean sat silent and tense on the edge of the queen bed, hands tucked between his knees as he waited for his father. The moon would rise in another hour.

John looked around the room quickly and picked up the dark khaki army duffle that held what they'd need for tonight's hunt. He looked down at his youngest son, sitting at the table.

"All right, Sam?"

Sam looked up at him, and nodded. "Yeah. Lock the door, don't leave the room, keep a watch."

John nodded. There was no reason to think that anything would come after Sam here, but he would rather be safe than sorry.

"We'll be back before dawn." He nodded to Dean and walked to the door, opening it and stepping out into the cool mountain night. Along the horizon to the west, flames leapt distantly, the sky reddened behind the upthrust peaks. He took a deep breath, and couldn't smell the smoke, although the ash was still falling, catching a cross-wind higher up in the atmosphere.

Dean followed him out and closed the door behind him, waiting to hear Sam doing up the locks and sliding on the chain. The rattle and bump inside the door confirmed it and he walked around to the passenger side of the car, getting in as his father started the engine.

* * *

They were silent as they drove south, winding through the developed areas. John parked the car in the large gravel lot at the edge of the recreational park, and they pulled out their bags, transferring guns and magazines to the pockets of their jackets, John slinging the rifle over his shoulder. They walked across the park, finding the beginning of the wide hiking trail that led up into the wilderness beyond.

The nearest camping site was a quarter mile, the ground rising steeply to it, gaining four hundred feet over that distance. The trail was open at first, then as it started to wind up, the trees grew closer, thick stands of oak and mountain mahogany separated by grassy clearings. John glanced at his watch, and turned his head, watching the eastern horizon to their left.

Dean turned his head as well, knowing what his father was looking for. He felt his legs turn to jelly, his breathing become thick and difficult as the moon rose above the plains; huge, full and blood red.

"Why's it look like that?" he whispered to his father, walking closer to him. John jerked his head to the west, toward the fire behind them.

"Ash and particles in the air from the fire, we're seeing the moon through it, and it refracts the moonlight to a different colour." He looked down at Dean's face, ruddy with the awful glow. "It'll become white when it rises higher, above the pollution."

Dean nodded, taking a deeper breath. Just pollution in the air, he told himself severely, nothing to do with what they were doing. He felt his body regain its strength, his breathing ease. Over-active imagination, he thought, trying to deride himself out of the sense that it had been an omen – and not a good one.

The first camp site was empty, a long stretch of thinly grassed level ground that was bounded by a small creek on one side. John shrugged and kept to the trail, making for the next one, another quarter mile up the hill. The attacks last month had been at the second one, and he thought that the creature would stick to what it knew.

They were about half way up the trail when the howl rose in the north, ululating mournfully. Too early, John thought, glancing again at his watch. Last time it hadn't killed until one.

"Come on, we have to hurry." He increased the length of his stride, forcing the pace. Behind him, Dean alternated between a run and a walk, his hand firmly around the butt of the gun in his pocket.

They came to the edge of the clearing, the second site much smaller than the first, and saw two vehicles, parked a few hundred yards from each other, tents set up beside them. John looked slowly around, eyes narrowed as he searched for a good position. His eye was caught by the sight of the road chain lying by the side of the road. He walked closer, and swore.

He'd rung the parks office in the afternoon to check on the status of the sites. The ranger had told him that the higher sites were closed off, just in case the wind shifted and the fire once again threatened the canyon. Someone either hadn't enforced that decision, or had made a decision for themselves. He crouched down, lifting the end of the chain and saw that the padlock had been cut, the end of the u-bolt sheared by a powerful tool.

"Godammit." He looked up the road, and back to the two tents. Dean watched him, keeping quiet. The howl rose again, this time much closer, and higher in the hills, and John closed his eyes in frustration.

"There are more campers higher up." He turned to his son. "And that's where it's headed."

Dean nodded, breaking into a run as he followed John up the trail, his father moving fast up the hill.

John pulled the air in through his nose and pushed it out through his mouth, as his feet pounded on the gravel. He could feel the sweat beginning to sheen on his face, the night air cooling it as it formed. The sudden gust of wind rattled through the trees and pushed against him, and he slowed, smelling the smoke on the strengthening breeze, feeling the change of the direction of the wind against his skin. He looked west and saw the tree tops bending against the red light of the distant flames, bending toward them, as the wind backed. God, _no_, he thought furiously, pushing himself harder, faster up the hill, seeing the trees thinning as the clearing opened ahead.

Moonlight, dim and bloody, shone over the wreck of the tent. The shredded nylon rustled as the smoke-filled wind blew through the clearing and they stopped at the edge, under the cover of the trees, waiting and watching and listening.

Dean heard the growl, low and menacing, coming from behind the pickup that sat next to the remains of the camp. He touched his father's arm lightly. John nodded, slipping the rifle from his shoulder.

"Stay here. Don't move," he breathed next to Dean's ear. The boy nodded, and he melted away, placing his feet silently on the ground, moving slowly across the open space toward the vehicle.

He knew what he'd find, and braced himself for the sight, not wanting to lose any speed to a moment's shock. The growling was interspersed by the sound of tearing and sudden sharp cracks. He timed his movements to them, hoping that the noises would hide any sound he made, grateful for the wind now as it carried his scent away from the truck, away from the creature upwind. He stopped at the corner of the tray back, releasing the safety and easing his face past the edge.

The werewolf was crouched over the victim, the deformed face slick with blood, the eyes lit from within, a pale green rimmed by gold. John waited until his breathing was steady, then stepped suddenly out from the back of the truck, rifle barrel dropping, the stock firm against his shoulder as he levelled the sight over the beast's chest. His finger drew the trigger back smoothly and the crack echoed around the clearing.

At the last fraction of a second it had seen him and moved, rising a few inches from its crouched position. The scream as the bullet ploughed into its torso was high, like a wild cat, drilling into his ears; he worked the bolt fast and aimed again, but it was gone, bounding over the hood of the truck and landing in the clearing behind it. John spun around and raced around the back of the truck, seeing the werewolf lit up fully as behind them, fire reared over the ridge top, sending a plume of sparks and flames into the thick, dry woodland on the edge of the road.

The dry woods exploded into flame and John felt the push from the expanding air shove him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled and got to his feet, staring around at the hellishly lit empty field, his shadow black in front of him as the flames rose higher.

"Dean!" He started to run for the opposite side of the field, catching a movement in the periphery of his vision, the creature leaping through the trees toward his son.

Dean stood, watching his father race toward him, the fire roaring behind him, devouring the trees and shrubs, stretching out to consume the dry grass of the clearing as the wind accelerated with the rising heat. Over the noise, he barely heard the crunch to his left, his instincts took over and he fell to the side, dragging the Taurus from his pocket, his thumb flicking off the safety, his finger finding the trigger and firing as the werewolf leapt over him. The gun's sound was much bigger than the rifle, and he saw the beast's trajectory shift as the bullet hit it, knocking it sideways, down the hillside.

John reached him a second later, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him to his feet, dragging him toward the road. They glimpsed the shape of the beast against the black trunks of the trees to one side and it disappeared. The heat from the fire baked into their backs as they raced down the trail, the air drying out around them, showers of sparks carried by the wind falling over them.

The campsite below was chaos as the campers tried to gather their belongings and pack them into the cars. John and Dean burst through the smoke, running to them.

"Forget your godamned stuff, you have to leave NOW!" John roared at the first group, shoving the man against his car. "Get your family out!"

Dean sucked in another breath, coughing furiously as he drew smoke into his lungs. He ran to the other vehicle, yelling at them to leave, his eyes frantically searching for any sign that the werewolf was in the woods surrounding the clearing at the same time. He felt his father's arm circle his ribs, and he was lifted, thrown into the back of the pickup, John scrambling in behind him as the driver turned tightly and followed the other car down the trail at breakneck speed. They bounced around in the back as the truck hit potholes and ruts, the noise of the fire racing behind them drowning out every other sound, even their own cries.

* * *

The pickup stopped at the parking lot and John pulled Dean out. A loose can of water had hit the boy in the side of the head on the way down, and he'd been knocked out for a moment, coming to as the truck slowed. He half-dragged, half-carried Dean to the Impala, easing him into the passenger seat and turning to look back up the hill. The fire had taken hold, pushed east by the wind. He could hear the sirens of multiple fire trucks as they came out of the city, heading for them, seeing the flashing lights down the road, drawing closer.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he pulled out a bottle of water from the bag on the seat next to him, undoing the lid and passing it to his son. Dean swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and handed it back, still coughing slightly. John drank deeply, washing the smoke and ash from his mouth and throat, closing his eyes as the cool water soothed the dry irritation. Behind his closed lids, he saw again the pale eyes of the werewolf, glaring at him balefully. Another image overlaid them; another pair of pale green eyes glared at him, and he sat up abruptly, dropping the water, fingers suddenly clumsy as he tried to find the key, his fear squeezing his heart.

Dean was slammed into the door as the engine caught and roared and John spun the wheel, the tyres sending up a rooster's tail of gravel behind them.

"What's wrong?" He held tightly to the arm rest, looking at John's face.

"Sam," John barked the single word out, his voice cracking slightly.

* * *

Sam woke as the news report broke into the program on the television. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, looking at the live footage of the fire racing down the mountainside, sparks and flames reaching over canyons and gullies to set ridge top after ridge top alight.

_"Fire trucks have headed through Chautauqua's recreational area to ensure that the fire doesn't reach the houses on the western side of the city –"_

He hit the mute on the remote as he heard a noise outside, and turned his head, listening past the distant hum of traffic on the road beyond the motel's parking lot, past the sound of the growing wind in the trees that lined the other side of the building. The odd noise that had caught his attention wasn't repeated. He looked at the television, and turned off the mute, dropping the remote as the sound came back on, and crawling across the floor to the windows.

_"- our reporter at Chautauqua. Murray, what is the situation with the fire now?"_

_"Well, Brian, the front came through an hour ago and as you can see, the situation has worsened very quickly."_

Crouching next to the front wall of the room, Sam closed his eyes, shutting out the noise from the TV, focussing his attention. He could hear panting outside, rough and irregular. He felt a tremble in his legs and arms and fought it off, clenching his teeth tightly together as he forced himself to move closer to the bed. Dad's bag was under it. Sliding his hand along the carpet, he felt along under the edge. There was nothing there.

Other side, he thought, and belly-crawled around the foot to the other side of the bed. His hand found the edge of the bag on the first swipe along, pulling it slowly toward him. He felt for the zipper and edged it back, a few teeth at a time, hoping that the television was covering any sound he made. The faint scratching on the door snapped his head up, an icy shiver freezing him for a second. He pulled the zipper back faster, reaching in, his held breath gusting out silently in relief as his hand closed around the Beretta. The silver bullets were in a box under the gun, and he closed his eyes tightly, feeling for the box, prising the cardboard open and pulling out a handful of the bullets. The magazine held normal steel jacketed rounds.

He could hear the hoarse panting and an intermittent clicking noise from outside the door, his imagination providing him with an image that had his pulse rocketing and his fingers fumbling at the button on the side of the gun, above the grip. The faint click as the magazine was released brought another shiver of relief. Sam drew it out and looking down, his heart slamming against the inside of his chest, a thin trickle of sweat running from his hair into his eyes as he pulled out the bullets one by one.

The scratching at the door became louder, and he froze again as the door was bumped, rattling against the frame and the locks. He looked down, yanking the bullets out now, clearing the chamber and loading the silver rounds in as quickly as he could, uncaring of how loud it was. A second bump against the door splintered the frame around the lock, and he blinked angrily as fear and adrenalin rushed through his body, his eyes watering in reaction.

_"As you can see, the fire turned just below the peaks and has now spread north and south through the park."_

The door fractured and split as the creature hit it the third time, landing several feet into the room amidst the pieces. Sam slipped the safety off and wriggled backward until he could feel the nightstand behind him. He lifted the barrel and looked along it, his finger curled around the trigger. He'd practised with it a few times, the weight reassuringly heavy in his hands as he rested his wrists on his knees.

The werewolf looked around, growling softly. Sam could see the bulging shoulders, covered in a thick fall of long hair over the edge of the bed. The growl rose and fell with its breathing and Sam tightened his grip on the 9mm as he saw the head come past the end of the bed.

_"We've got unconfirmed reports that a family may have been up at the third campsite and may have died as the fire came down through it. The helicopter can't –"_

The creature snarled, swinging a long arm and knocking the television from the cupboard, the tube exploding as the case hit the floor. Sam's sharply indrawn breath was barely audible but its head turned straight to him, lambent eyes fixing on him as the shoulders followed and the long muscles in the thighs contracted.

_Has to be in the heart, in the heart, silver through the heart_. Sam's thoughts chattered inanely in his head, a frantic litany that he couldn't stop. _Through the heart, throughtheheart,theheartthehearttheheart_. The gun's sight was lined up with the broad furred chest he could see and he pulled the trigger. The retort was deafening in the small room and the gun kicked back, hurting his wrists. The werewolf screamed, the noise louder than the gunfire, and as it rushed at him, Sam pulled the trigger again, his eyes tightly shut, tears squeezing out through his lashes as a second scream drilled into his ears, so close he could feel the hot breath of the wolf on his face.

The scrape of claws over his scalp galvanised his limbs, sent him blindly scrambling up and away from the bed, his feet not keeping up with his body as he ran for the bedroom, pitching him forward onto hands and knees, knuckles cracking between floor and gun grip.

The hiss behind him was meaningless until he felt the pain, the flutter of his shirt in ribbons against his skin, his legs slowing as blood ran down his back and legs. Everything slowed down inexplicably and he crumpled to the floor, the gun falling from his hand, bouncing over the thin carpet.

"SAM!"

John came through the door and the werewolf turned. The Colt 1911 fired a .44 calibre bullet, and the silver slug had punched through the heart and exited as the shot thundered in the room.

He didn't look at the creature as he raced to his son, falling to his knees beside Sam's limp form, gathering him carefully in his arms as he tried to see where the blood was coming from, the heel of one hand resting against the boy's chest.

Dean ran in behind his father, staring in disbelief around the wrecked room, at the transformation of the creature back to the human form of the police officer they'd seen the previous day, his gaze finally coming to his father, holding Sam in his arms, blood everywhere. He felt himself go cold at the sight, shock holding him still, every thought wiped.

"Dean, get the car started, we have to get Sam to the hospital," John snapped, lifting Sam and turning, brows drawing together as he saw the blankness in his oldest son's face.

"NOW!"

Looking up, Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes refocussing. He nodded once and spun around, running out to the car, wrenching the driver's door open and sliding into the seat. The engine rumbled into life as John opened the back door, cradling Sam against his chest as he eased them both onto the seat and pulled the door shut.

* * *

The drive to the hospital. Finding the ER entrance. The smell of smoking rubber as the car jerked to a stop in front of the doors. The headlights on the parked cars in the lot. Running back to the ER. No moment flowed from one to the next. They were snapshots. Images. Unconnected.

Dean ran along the hospital corridor, unaware of how he looked, covered in dirt and smoke and ash from the fire, blood dried to a thin crust from the small cut on the side of his head, eyes huge and wild as he frantically searched for his father and brother.

"Are you all right?" The nurse stopped him when he almost ran into her, her hands on his shoulders as he tried to push past her.

"Fine!" he snapped, pulling free. "I'm fine … uh … my father brought my brother in a few minutes ago, I have to find them."

She nodded, turning aside and leading him to a room with four beds, the closest surrounded by a thin curtain. As she drew back the curtain, he saw his father, leaning against the end of the bed, watching a doctor cleaning out the long claw marks that ran from Sam's shoulderblade across his back to just short of his spine.

The doctor didn't look up as Dean stepped inside the curtain and John's gaze remained fixed on the bed, but he held out his arm, and Dean walked to him, leaning against his father's side as the arm curved around his shoulder and held him close. He could feel his father's body shaking as they looked down at Sam, feel the deep shudders passing through muscle and bone.

* * *

Sam woke slowly, his eyelids unwilling to rise. He felt stiff and sore, his mouth dry. The air smelled funny, he thought, licking his lips. Something, somewhere nearby was beeping softly. Behind the half-darkness of his closed lids, the werewolf's eyes came back to him, and memories, along with the emotions that had accompanied them, crashed into his mind a second later. He felt his hand picked up as his breathing quickened, and he forced his eyes open, looking into his father's face. The hand that held his was familiar, calloused and rough along the fingers and palm, the scent of leather and gun oil and whiskey drowning out the sterile smell of the ward. His father smiled at him and the panic left immediately, letting him slump back against the pillows with a hoarse exhale.

"It's okay, Sammy. You're safe, all good now," Dean's voice came from his right, and he turned his head to look at his brother, sitting beside the bed, elbows on the sheets. The bruised look to his brother's face and the hollows around his father's eyes belied Dean's reassurances. He saw Dean's fear and his father's worry at the back of their eyes.

"Wha' hapn'd?" he tried to ask but it came out as a whispered croak. His father stretched to pick up the cup beside the bed, guiding the straw to Sam's mouth. The water was tepid and flat but it soothed the dryness, took away the slightly bad taste in his mouth.

"The werewolf tracked back to our motel room from our scents. It came after you after we lost it," his father told him, his voice low as he put the cup back.

"You shot it twice, Sam," Dean said, his voice holding a deep admiration, tempered slightly out of consideration of where they were. "You only missed the heart by a hair."

John nodded. "You've got some scars from it. A couple in your hair. Four down your back."

Sam looked into his father's eyes and saw the flash of deep fear there, a horror at how close he'd come to losing his youngest son, gone almost before he could register it. It frightened him more than the werewolf had.

"Lucky for you, we just made it. Dad killed it and the doc says you're fine," Dean added, injecting a faintly mocking tone as he saw his brother's expression. Sam's wide-eyed look dissolved as he lifted one hand and swung a weak punch at his brother's elbow.

* * *

It wasn't until later, Dean thought, that he'd realised how little they'd seen their father scared. When the striga had come for his brother. Sammy didn't even remember that anymore. Dean knew he would never be able to forget it. And here.

He'd seen his father break when the doctor had been cleaning and stitching the wounds. Seen him turn and walk out of the ward into the corridor, seen the reaction to the near miss come to the surface. He'd stood and watched as his father had leaned against the wall of the corridor, broad shoulders shaking with the delayed shock and fear.

He didn't want to see that again. It'd felt as if his world had begun to fall apart, every foundation he'd believed in crumbling.

* * *

Looking at his older brother's face, Sam watched the cascade of emotions pass over the expressive features. He hadn't thought of dying, in the motel room with the stench of the predator all around him. Hadn't believed in it, not really. Because of the two people here, standing on either side of his bed, he thought.

He saw the fierce, bright love in Dean's eyes most clearly, and he knew he was safe here, between them. Nowhere else in the world could he ever be as safe as he was right now.

* * *

_The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other._

_~ Mario Puzo_


	13. Chapter 13 And Winter Came

**Chapter 13 And Winter Came**

* * *

_What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories._

_~ George Eliot_

* * *

_**1994. Northern Minnesota.**_

Sam watched longingly as his father, Bobby and brother packed their gear into the back of the car. Standing beside him on the broad porch of the old house, Jim turned and saw the look, taking a step closer to the boy.

"We'll be back in a few days, Sam," Dean said, his voice rich with delight and complacency. "You make sure you get all your school work done!"

John glanced back over his shoulder at his oldest son, still grinning widely beside the rear door of the car, and turned and walked to Sam.

"Ignore him, Sammy; he's going to be working his ass off for the next few days, playing pack mule. Look after Jim, alright?"

Sam nodded, his throat close and tight. He knew that he was too young yet for this hunt, but it still hurt. He wasn't a baby, he could handle himself. He looked up at his father, lower lip caught between his teeth.

John laid his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing it tightly. "Next year, Sammy. Okay?"

"Okay." The word came out softly. John sighed inwardly. Last year, Sam hadn't wanted to go hunting at all. Had wanted to stay put and make friends. This year he'd been pestering John since spring to go, to teach him this or that, to spend time with Bill, or Bobby or Rufus. No doubt why his brother was crowing over him now. He turned his head.

"Dean, get in the car or you'll be staying as well."

Dean's grin vanished and he ducked into the car, pulling the door shut with a bang.

John looked back to Jim, his feelings passing to the older man without the need for words. _Look after him_.

_I will_, Jim's eyes promised.

"See you in a few days."

Jim nodded.

John turned away and walked down to the car, opening the driver's side. He could hear Bobby's voice inside as he ducked and slid into the seat.

"Don't tease your brother like that, Dean. How'd you feel if it was you stayin' behind?"

"Like a loser." Dean grinned at Bobby, excitement making him bounce on the seat just a little.

Bobby turned and looked at John. "That boy's got a mean streak."

John nodded, turning the key and letting the engine warm up. His foot touched the accelerator as he pulled around, the rear sliding a fraction in the frozen dirt. "He'll get it worked out of him, next few days."

Bobby nodded, frowning back over the seat at Dean. "Damned straight."

Dean grinned wider. They could work him until he dropped, he was still going to hunt with Bobby and his father in the woods … it was … it was … there were no words big enough.

* * *

They pulled into Black Duck at five o'clock and found a motel with a couple of vacancies. Dean willingly lugged the gear bags from the car to the rooms, staggering a little under their weight, but still filled with excitement to be here. He and his father were sharing a double and he looked at the queen sized beds with delight, dumping his bag next to the one nearest the bathroom.

Wendigo. Even the name evoked a seriousness, a solemness that he rarely felt. The three men had talked about the creature a little before they'd left, and he'd absorbed their seriousness on the subject. Unbelievably fast, to the point where invisibility became an issue. Powerful. Evil incarnate.

At fifteen, he was growing fast, hard work and genetics working hand in hand. Training was daily, his father's Corps combat for the most part, Caleb's variations when they were near Blue Earth, old-fashioned but powerhouse boxing from Bobby when they close to Sioux Falls.

Going into the small bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, running a hand over his jawline and along his cheek. He'd started shaving a couple of months ago and the growth was uneven still but at least there. Five foot nine inches and wide across the shoulders, the muscles clear under his tee shirt.

He turned on the tap and cupped his hands under the flow, ducking his head to splash it over his face and through his hair, washing off the grime and sweat from the trip and the lugging of the big duffles into the room. Looking back at the mirror as the droplets ran off his skin and dripped from his lashes, he felt a thread of doubt persisting. He was big for his age, and strong and pretty fast, but that wasn't enough. Not in their life. He felt a fleeting surge of relief that Sammy wasn't here. It was harder when he had to think about protecting his brother. Harder to focus on the job.

Pushing the doubt in himself aside, he grabbed the thin towel from the rail beside the sink and rubbed it hard over his head. It wouldn't come down to just him so there was no point in worrying, he decided.

* * *

He sat quietly in the bar, listening to Bobby and his father talk, nursing the single beer his father had allowed him, a renewed excitement fizzing along his veins, an unconscious grin lurking around his mouth.

Bobby looked over at him sourly. "You better calm down, Dean, or you'll be strung out before we even get there."

John looked at his son, the corners of his mouth tucked in as he repressed a smile. "Bobby's right. Calm down and listen up."

Dean took a deep breath but he knew it was useless. His heart was beating steadily but a little too fast, had been all day, since he'd woken up that morning. He wasn't in the slightest bit tired. He was trying to concentrate on what they were talking about, trying to pay attention to their surroundings, trying to get the fizz out of his system, but even the beer had no effect, other than making him need to pee.

"Wendigo is an Ojibwe word," Bobby said, leaning on his elbows and looking at Dean. "I heard about 'em first from an old man of the Makandwewininiwag people, a little further north of here, around Red River. He said that there had always been legends, stories about the men who changed in the long winter months. Sometimes the men became wendigos. Sometimes they were possessed by the evil spirit of the wendigo. Didn't matter, because once they'd changed, there was no turning back."

"The wendigo would always start the same way, a man who was starving, or greedy, who would kill and eat another man to survive. The more they ate, the faster they changed." Bobby swallowed a mouthful of his beer, noticing that Dean had finally stopped twitching and was listening.

"They became faster, stronger, living for a long time, so long as they kept eating human flesh. The descriptions were always the same too – skeletal, desiccated, grey skin and sunken eyes, sometimes red, sometimes black. Covered in sores some stories say. Some of the tribes believed that they absorbed any illness of their victims, and it would appear on them after they'd consumed the flesh. They hunt through the woods, usually in fall, every twenty to thirty years, and take the victims away, hiding them, burying them, to keep them going until they woke and it would be time to hunt again."

* * *

Lying on the bed, staring through the darkness at the ceiling, Dean listened to the steady breathing of his father nearby and slowly came to recognise that he wasn't going to be able to get any sleep for a while.

Since the werewolf thing last year, he'd been wound up over the hunts that his father allowed him to join. He was strong, and his accuracy with the guns, with the recurve and crossbows, even with the tranquiliser gun, was good, his reactions fast, he didn't freeze up or panic when the moment for action came.

He was learning, all the time, all the things that he needed to know, how to track, how to move silently, how to anticipate the action, understanding the behaviour of the monsters, why they did this thing or that thing, his imagination furnishing details that no book could provide. But he needed practice. He needed to be out there, doing it, with experienced hunters, with his father, with Bobby, to get really good.

And he still had another two years of school to get through.

He turned his head to one side, eyes rolling as he thought of that. His father was adamant he wouldn't be dropping out early. He couldn't see the point of staying any longer. He was never going to need the crap the teachers tried to cram into his brain at school. He wasn't cut out for a normal life, he couldn't deal with the endless talking that went on in what he'd seen of normal lives. He wanted the fast action, the sudden danger of the hunt, the careful preparation and care of his weapons, the challenge of locating the monsters, outthinking them, destroying them; he needed to test himself against creatures that were bigger, faster, more powerful, test his skill, test his knowledge, test his courage.

He thought of the school at Blue Earth he and Sam had enrolled in at the beginning of fall. He liked some of the kids, but he couldn't talk to them, couldn't talk about football games and test scores, homework and who was doing what on the weekends. His mind was ticking over how to break down the semi-automatic machine gun Caleb had acquired for his father a few weeks ago; why the skinwalker they'd ganked in the summer had turned back into a human, when shapeshifters remained in their last stolen form when they were killed. He frequently looked up in the middle of a conversation with his peers, realising that he had no idea what they were talking about or what they'd said in the last five minutes, watching the bemusement on their faces as he cast about for a clue as to what he was supposed to be answering. He just couldn't make himself concentrate on that crap.

He rolled over onto his side, pulling the covers higher over his shoulder. Sam was better at it, he thought. Sam somehow separated the life he had at school from the life he lived at home, and became a different person for each. He was quite happy to forget about hunting once he got on the school bus, talking to his friends, studying, trying out for the school sports teams. He was playing soccer already, accepted on the team, his trained reflexes outgunning the kids who'd been playing longer. Dean had no idea how he did it, lived the two separate lives like that. He could only focus on what he thought was important, and that, for him, meant focussing on the life he knew, hunting.

He wasn't aware that his thoughts and feelings weren't churning quite as much as the night crept by. His eyelids closed as he wondered if he could learn to change himself, to become more like his little brother, learn the ability to shut off half of himself and pretend that he was normal as Sam did … his breathing slowed and became lighter, and sleep finally caught up with him, smothering whatever thoughts he might have had about that possibility.

* * *

They drove down County Road 30, the car rumbling along steadily, spitting gravel and small rocks out behind the wide tyres. Bobby looked up and gestured to the right as they approached the first turnoff. 8 Mile Road would take them south, deeper into the park.

Dean looked around at the woods that were thick and dark, native timbers competing against introduced spruce and tamarack, crowding the sides of the narrow gravel road, shutting out the early morning sunlight. He could easily imagine anything living in that dense, dark forest, the sense of being watched was probably right – if only by the local natural wildlife, but he thought that in the winter, when the animals were hibernating and the snow lay thick on the ground, another kind of creature would stalk the woods, Bobby's story resurfacing in his mind.

He'd read the file and his father had filled the missing bits. Twenty six campers or hikers had gone missing from the state park over the last hundred years, in clumps of four to five, every twenty years or so. The local authorities had written it down as animal attacks, although the bodies were never found. The area had good populations of bear but nothing else really that could account for so many people being taken without a trace, and the bears here were well-fed, unlikely to attack humans without provocation. The last attacks had occurred in 1973. In the last two weeks, a couple had vanished from their campsite. The rangers had found the two-man tent shredded, the couple's belongings ripped to pieces and scattered over the area. Bobby had called his father two days ago.

He looked ahead as the car slowed, bumping over the potholes and ruts that had become more prevalent the deeper into the park they travelled.

"That's it." Bobby pointed to the right, and John pulled the car off the road, driving along a narrow gravelled lay-by.

"Walking from here," Bobby said to no one in particular, opening his door and getting out. John turned off the engine and opened his door, climbing out and stretching his back.

Dean got out, dragging his duffle and the gear bag with him. The air was cool and moist, the fecund scent of decaying plant matter washing over him from the surrounding woods. He swung the gear bag over his shoulder, feeling the straps bite down through his coat, and hefted the duffle in his free hand. Bobby had pulled a hiker's backpack from the trunk, and slung a large leather satchel across his chest. Behind him, John had settled his army pack on his back, and held a smaller pack in his hand. He locked the trunk and the doors of the car, and they turned to follow Bobby down the narrow trail that led west into the forest.

The mix of deciduous and evergreen trees cut the daylight as the canopy closed over them, the soft, wet layers of dead leaves, flattened and decomposing, deadening their footfalls, and queerly muffling the sounds in the forest around them. Bobby led them along the trail, his red cap the brightest colour in the dim light. John brought up the rear and Dean walked between the two, watching and listening. The camp site that the couple had been camping in was only a couple of miles in, west and then south once they crossed the ridge.

When they walked out into the clearing, no more than sixty feet across, Dean lifted his face unconsciously to the wan, grey sunlight, relieved to be out of the woods. Thick, matted and dried-up grass covered the soft soil, a ring of stones and a battered trash can declaring it was a designated campsite in the forest. Surrounding the clearing, aspen and maple, beech and yellow birch grew in close profusion, their canopies rich in fall colours, the leaves drifting over the clearing and crackling under their feet.

Bobby dropped his pack and walked around the clearing slowly, occasionally bending to brush aside the leaf matter and study the ground. John watched him as he took off his own pack, unrolling the tent and waiting for the other man. Dean let the gear bag down gently, and rolled his shoulder, sliding his hand under his shirt and jacket to rub at the indentation left there by the strap. He pulled a bottle of water from his duffle and opened it, drinking as he too watched Bobby move around the open area.

"Well, it came out from this side," Bobby said, turning his head to look up at them from where he crouched. He gestured at the almost invisible trail head into the woods to the west. "Lotta tracks over the top from where they've cleaned up the site."

He stood and pointed to another small gap between the trees to the south west. "Went back in on that trail, carrying both of the people, I think. Tracks are much heavier going out."

John walked over to the second trail and dropped to one knee beside it, looking down at the long narrow prints pressed into the soft soil and humus. He felt Dean come up behind him, and shifted right slightly as the boy looked over his shoulder. They could both see the depth where the ball of the foot had sunk under the extra weight the creature had been carrying.

"We need to make some protection for this site if we're going to leave stuff here," Bobby said, looking around the camp site. "It'll take the food and shelter and rip it up otherwise."

Dean turned and looked at him curiously. "What kind of protection?"

"A circle," Bobby answered, going to his pack. "The Anasazi had a lot of protective symbols for evil spirits, and for the creatures that live in the southwest and are similar to the wendigo." He took out a battered notebook from one zippered compartment on the outside of the pack and flipped through the pages, stopping at one that was covered in symbols.

"The first thing any hunter learns is how to protect himself from whatever it is that he's hunting. Because if you don't know how to do that, you'll find yourself being hunted in pretty short order," he said to Dean, handing him the book. "Everything has a counter. Once you know it, you got a position of strength."

Dean watched as the older man knelt in the grass and pulled out his knife, cutting through the roots and lifting out the turf pieces, leaving the symbols clearly marked in the dirt beneath.

"Come on, help me get the tent up," John said quietly beside him, and they moved it to within the circle Bobby was making, laying it out and assembling the poles.

"Better get us a heap of firewood too." Bobby looked suspiciously at the sky, the thin grey clouds breaking up into streamers. He finished cutting the last symbol of the circle from the grass and got to his feet, waving a hand vaguely at the dissipating cloud cover. "New system will be over us by nightfall and it'll be cold."

Dean nodded and started to walk toward the trees, when John grabbed his arm. "Not alone, Dean, never alone. Give me a second, I'll come with you."

He watched his father as he picked up the second pack, stripping the canvas cover from it. It was actually a small frame, he could see as the cover was removed, holding two cylinders on the back, with a flexible hose running from the base and ending in a short stubby barrel. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and his father smiled wryly at him.

"Flamethrower." He glanced at Bobby, who was pulling a similar frame from his own pack. "Immolation is the only way to kill them."

Dean filed that away and followed his father into the forest.

* * *

John looked around the camp site two hours later, nodding in satisfaction. The symbols enclosed the tent, fire and the sizeable wood pile completely. He and Bobby had the flamethrower packs on their backs; Dean carried the backups, two large aerosol cans and a lighter, tucked into his jacket pockets.

"It's doubtful we'll see the thing in the daylight," Bobby warned them, shifting the strap of his pack slightly. "What we need to do is look around the area, find the tracks, find the lair."

"Lair?" Dean looked at him, frowning.

"This is Minnesota, son, it ain't spending six months of the year out in the open. It'll be taking its victims to somewhere underground, somewhere cool where it can keep them alive for awhile."

"Those people – they might still be alive?" Dean looked from Bobby to his father in shock.

"Probably not, Dean." John looked over his head at Bobby. "They were the first of the new cycle, and it was hungry."

Bobby nodded. "But it will have a place. We need to find it. Hunting them through the forest is a fool's game, and my mama didn't raise no fools."

He turned to John, gesturing at the trail that the wendigo had left the clearing on. "Take point, John, I'll follow along. Dean, stay behind your father and if you hear or see anything shout and drop. Got it?"

Dean nodded, hurrying after his father as they entered the first dense stands of trees. He could hear Bobby behind him, some of the time anyway, the occasional rustle as he brushed by the undergrowth, the slight creak of the webbing harness of the pack. He tried to move silently, putting his feet where his father had, moving aside as he passed by shrubs and bushes protruding onto the trail instead of brushing through them.

John walked slowly, his eyes flicking between the ground and the tracks that led them onward, and the surrounding trees, his senses stretched out as fully as possible, to pick up anything that might give them warning of an approach.

A mile along the trail, the tracks disappeared. John stopped, holding up his hand. Bobby walked past Dean to look around. He glanced at John and they both looked up. The canopy was almost continuous in this part of the woods, the branches stretching out tree to tree. John nodded.

Bobby turned to Dean. "It must be somewhere fairly close, because it's gone high to hide the direction and the distance."

John looked at his watch. It was past three and sunset would be in an hour, give or take. He wanted them to be back in camp, he wanted Dean to be back in camp and in the safety of the circle before then.

"We don't have much time."

Bobby nodded, looking thoughtfully at the terrain, his gaze travelling slowly over the contours, following the gentle rise of the land to the north of them. There were no caves or mines in the area, nothing that could be readily used as a burrow to withstand the cold winter. It had to be something that it had made, something it had dug … below ground was the warmest option, the deeper the better.

"John." He pointed to the rising ground. "That way."

John looked along the line of the hill and nodded, walking through the clumps of sorrel and wintergreen that grew under the trees. Dean followed, staying within six feet of his father. Bobby walked after them, his gaze moving continuously in a three hundred and sixty degree circle, listening for the sounds of the forest, watching for shadows that weren't where they were suppose to be.

The entrance was almost invisible, a deeper shadow under the roots of an old beech, covered by the sprawling fronds of wild sarsaparilla and sorrel. John wouldn't have even noticed it if it hadn't been for the red squirrel, who'd stared at him and dashed inside. He crouched down beside the hole, lifting the stems and leaves aside, and saw the track, a clear impression of the narrow ball of the foot, and the disturbed earth where the victims had been lowered to the ground and dragged into the hole.

He waited for Bobby and they both looked at it for awhile. The quarters would be very cramped inside, even if it opened up a little past the entrance. The range of the flamethrowers on their backs would mean that only one could in, else risk incinerating the other. John sighed.

"I'll go in," he said, slipping the nozzle of the flamethrower into its catch on the side of the frame. "You hear me yelling, get back and get ready to fry it as it comes out."

"Don't worry about me," Bobby said, as John lowered himself to the ground and wriggled into the hole. "Dean, I gotta watch the entrance. You need to watch the trail and the forest. You see anything, you hear anything, shout and drop, right?"

"Right." Dean turned so that he faced away from the hole, although not being able to see that dark square was very hard. He shut out the thoughts of his father, crawling down there alone, shut out the sound of Bobby's breathing a couple of feet behind him and made a concerted effort to focus his attention on the woods, the colours and the shadows, the sighs and rustles and calls of the birds and insects. He'd been regular hunting with Bobby often enough to know that if something big moved through the forest, be it animal, human or monster, the noises would cease instantly as the smaller wildlife froze and waited for the danger to pass them by.

The minutes ticked away slowly. Bobby waited with his finger on the trigger with unlimited patience, his eyes never moving from the dark hole beneath the roots. Dean felt his mind slip into a state of peace, no thought intruding, just his senses active. To the west, the sun sank, the light reaching under the leaves of the trees, the shadows growing longer and longer.

Dean registered the grunt behind him, but didn't turn. Bobby watched as John crawled out, his face and arms black with dirt, twisting a little to ease his frame, with the pack over it, through the narrow entrance.

"They're there," he said, rolling to his feet and brushing the soft, moist soil from his hair and clothes. "It's a bit bigger inside, maybe ten by ten feet at the lowest burrow."

"Too small to take these in then." Bobby tapped the frame of the flamethrower. John nodded, face twisted in a grimace.

"Even if you could somehow get around the thing when it was in there, fire it only from the tunnel, chances are you'd be killing yourself at the same time."

Bobby shrugged. "Have to take it in the forest then."

"Yeah," John's voice held a mix of resignation and doubt. "If we can."

"We gotta get back. We'll deal with this later."

Bobby moved ahead of Dean again, taking point along the trail this time. Dean followed him, one hand holding the smooth round body of the aerosol, the other gripping the big lighter. John walked sideways behind him, watching the woods uneasily as darkness fell.

* * *

All three heard it, felt it. The small noises of the forest had ceased. They stood in the last dregs of the twilight, the trail patched now with the inky darkness of the shadows under the trees. In the silence, Dean could hear his heartbeat, pounding loudly in his ears. He shut out his thoughts, clamping down on the fear that was starting to thread its way along his nerves, focussing his concentration on listening, on looking for movement in the blackness.

Bobby stood completely still, the ball of his thumb pressed tightly against the firing catch of the nozzle, his fingers resting lightly against the trigger. His eyes were wide open as he scanned the mixed shades around them, grey through to black. The longer they stood there, the darker it was getting. But he couldn't move, had to wait for the creature to come to them, because a running battle would be a losing battle.

John spun around as the leaves and bushes behind him rustled suddenly, feeling the fast movement of air past his face though he couldn't see what had made it. He watched as Bobby spun as well, the nozzle of his flamethrower swinging around, following something through the dark.

Both men heard Dean's scream, pointing their flamethrowers in different directions and lighting them up as they saw the boy dragged away. John leapt forward, spraying the fire into the dry fall leaves above the trail, damping the shock that slammed into him as he saw the creature pick up his son, throwing him back toward them, the boy as limp as a rag doll. He released the trigger and ran for him, Bobby closing up behind him, the bright flame of his thrower shooting above them, light and fire showing the deep wounds across Dean's chest, the blood pouring from the gash on his head.

Bobby picked up a long branch, and lit the end, holding the flaming torch above him as he stood over John and his son. John crouched beside Dean, his mouth tightly compressed as he looked over the wounds, ripping the sleeve from his shirt hurriedly and pressing the folded cloth over the head wound.

"You'll have to carry him, John," Bobby said quietly.

John nodded, and slid his arm under Dean's shoulders, shifting his grip slightly and rolling him to get the other arm beneath his knees. He straightened and stood, the soaked-through pad falling as his son's head rolled back, his skin frighteningly pale in the strong light of the torch. He shifted his grip again, needing to make sure he could carry him for as long as it took to get back to the camp, and started walking, fighting his urge to run, forcing his breathing to steady. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as his arms and shoulders and stomach muscles began to register the strain.

Behind him, Bobby watched the woods, the flaming torch held high over his head, casting its light over the trail and trees, his other hand gripping the nozzle of the flamethrower, sweeping it back and forth.

* * *

"I don't know why it didn't attack again," Bobby said uneasily, as he piled more wood on the fire, the light reaching across the clearing to the trees. "It could 'a had us all, easy."

John shook his head, not knowing either. "Water done?"

He looked down at the boy's abdomen, the muscle of his jaw tight against the shock and grief that was churning in him. The claws had punched deep into Dean's upper torso, ripping through the muscle as the wendigo had dragged him away. John couldn't tell what had been damaged inside, his first priority to clean the wounds and stop him from losing any more blood. Both of their shirts and jeans were soaked in the boy's blood by the time they'd made it back to the camp, John's arms shaking when he'd laid him down on the sleeping bag inside the tent. The head wound was a long open cut, from the right cheekbone to behind the ear. He'd washed it, picking out tree bark and leaf matter, holding down the flare of rage when he'd realised that the creature had swung the boy into a tree trunk before throwing him back to them. He was afraid to touch it further in case the skull was fractured, and it was bleeding profusely, their small collection of dressings soaking through in minutes.

"Yep." Bobby passed him the pan, and John added a handful of salt to the water, watching it dissolve then dipping the soft gauze pad into it, sluicing the water over the wounds. He couldn't do anything about the dirt that had gone deep inside, hoping and praying that no organs had been damaged, that the blood that was flowing was from the surface, not inside.

He was aware of his rage, under the fear, the same rage that he'd lived with for eleven years now, a cold, metallic rage that had teeth and claws of its own, rising when he hunted, rising as he tracked the yellow-eyed demon across the years, rising when his boys were in danger, or hurt. He held it down, his will stronger now than in earlier years, more powerful at keeping the destructive forces inside him under his control.

Bobby leaned past him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the damage, watching John washing the dirt from the open wounds, the man's hands red and blistered from the boiling hot water.

"They've gone in deeper," Bobby commented, knowing that John had already seen it, unable to help himself.

"You bring any whiskey with you, Bobby?"

He nodded, turning to his pack and pulling out the silver flask. He handed it to John and watched him unscrew the cap, tipping the alcohol over the open tears. Despite being unconscious, the muscles of Dean's abdomen spasmed as the nerves registered the pain. He closed his eyes tightly as John tipped a little more over the long gash on the boy's head.

"Pass me the sterilised dressings."

Bobby picked them up, ripping open the packs and handing them over, John pulling the dressings out and laying them over the wounds. Bobby passed him a wide elasticised bandage, watching as John wound it around his son's head, holding the thick gauze dressing firmly against the long cut. Against the white of the bandage, Dean's face was colour of curd, a grey tinge under the pale skin, the skin along that side of his face already swelling and purpling.

Moving carefully around to the other side of the boy, Bobby eased his arm beneath Dean's shoulders and lifted him as John set the dressings over the claw wounds, taping them down and wrapping a second bandage right around his chest and abdomen. Bobby gently lay him back on the open sleeping bag as John lifted the zippered edges and closed them together, cocooning him into clean, down-filled bag.

"We can use the other two sleeping bags to make a stretcher, carry him out and down to the car," Bobby said, waving a hand toward the bedrolls behind him.

John shook his head, dragging in a deep breath and sitting back on his heels. "No. We have to hunt and kill this thing, Bobby."

For a long moment Bobby just stared at him. "John, we gotta get to a hospital. Those wounds'll get infected, we don't know the damage that's been done internally –"

"I know, but we've got to kill it before we can leave." John turned away, his face hard and remote in the cool white light of the fluorescent camp light as he repacked the medkit and gathered the trash for the fire. "He'll be safe here for a short time, inside the circle."

He shoved the trash into a paper bag, turning his head to look at Bobby. "We have one shot at this or we miss it for another twenty years. You want to come back here and hunt it down when you're seventy, Bobby?"

"No. I don't. But I don't want Dean to die because we didn't get him to a hospital in time, John," he heard his voice crack, and cleared his throat impatiently. "Come on, he's your son."

"After we kill it, Bobby." John looked out through the tent flaps at the fire burning brightly against the black night. "I'll be the bait, I'll take the aerosols and the lighter and go into the lair. It'll either follow me in, or it'll come after you." He turned his gaze back to the older hunter, his eyes so dark that they appeared almost black. "You'll have the flamethrower."

"John, please, think about this," Bobby said uneasily, looking down at Dean.

"I have, Bobby. It's all I did think of carrying him down here." John's lips curled back from his teeth in a soundless snarl. "I am not leaving here until it's ash, you hear me?"

The rage was there, visible. Bobby turned away, crawling out through the flap and setting another few pieces of wood onto the fire. He could feel an answering anger in himself, at the man behind him, at his own lack of knowledge of parenting that stopped him from arguing further. They did need to kill the wendigo, but not at the cost of that boy's life. He'd cared for the boys a more than a few times now and learned to love them, believing deep down that they needed more from their father, more of his time and attention, more of his love … and less hunting. But it wasn't his place to criticise John, he'd given up the right to hold an opinion about that a long time ago.

He looked back into the tent and growled, "If you're so goddamned deadset on doing this, then let's it over with."

John looked down at Dean's face, lifting his hand and resting it briefly on his son's forehead. It was still cool, there was time. He turned away and crawled out of the tent, turning back to pull the flap down and zip it completely closed. He picked up the aerosol cans and the lighter. Bobby stood outside of the circle, the flamethrower pack settled onto his back, the nozzle in his right hand, a burning branch in his left. His face was cold and distant as he waited, and he turned away and started for the trail before John had caught up.

* * *

The forest was eerily silent as they walked back along the trail. The high pressure system that had been forecast for the region was over them, and the temperature had been steadily falling through the night. Their breath ghosted in front of them as they walked and by the light of the torch, John could see the moisture on the ground crystallising.

Bobby felt the wendigo trailing them, keeping its distance, wary now of the flamethrowers they carried. It only had to wait them out, keeping away, to defeat them, he thought sourly, but it wouldn't. Hunger and greed were the hallmarks of the thing's creation and life – if you could call it that – and it would attack, when it felt it had the advantage, he was sure of it.

He tried to keep his thoughts far away from the boy lying back in the tent, but it was hard work. He had a lot of memories of him now, him and Sam, teaching them to track, to hunt, to play baseball and football, to shoot a moving target, and shoot while they were moving themselves, playing cards in the evenings, reading to them, teaching Dean the secrets of the combustion engine and the beauty and soul-deep satisfaction to be found in restoring something that was worthless to its former glory. There was a secret feeling that he held in the deepest part of his heart – that the boys were his now, as well as John's, and while it might be a secret that he'd take to the grave with him, he couldn't _not_ feel the anger against their father, for putting them in danger, for taking away their childhood.

He froze suddenly as a twig snapped to their left. Swinging the torch around caused the light and shadows to play crazily among the trees, showing him nothing. He stepped forward again, his heart racing, but there was no other sound, no movement ahead or to the sides of them.

John crouched in front of the hole, wondering if he was insane to be doing this. He shrugged inwardly. Of course he was fucking insane, he'd been insane since the moment he'd seen his wife pinned to the nursery ceiling, her blood dripping down onto her son and husband, and flames had leapt around her.

He held the aerosol can in one hand and the lighter in the other and he crawled forward on his elbows and knees, feeling utterly vulnerable to whatever waited in the darkness ahead of him.

Bobby moved to the side, aware that he couldn't hide from the monster, only invite it in. He stood within the exposed roots of the beech, feeling its rough bark against his shoulder, and waited, listening to the night.

* * *

As the tunnel opened up, John shifted onto his feet, shuffling along the dirt floor as it descended slowly, the smell of decomposing bodies ahead filling the faint movement of the air through the passage, skirling around him, making it difficult to breathe.

He stopped for a moment, setting the lighter onto the ground as he pulled out the magnesium-filled igniter. He'd removed it from his flamethrower before they'd set out. Now he held it against the can, picking up the big Zippo and moving forward again. There was one more bend and he'd be in the small chamber with the dead couple, he remembered.

The wendigo hand flashed out at him as he rounded the last bend. He threw himself backward, feeling the claws scraping along the flesh of his face, then he saw the head and shoulders appear from behind the corner, the sagging face with its deeply sunken eyes and shapeless mouth, coming toward him.

Time seemed to slow down, each moment hesitating before moving to the next. The igniter dropped and rolled down the slight slope under the wendigo. John watched it as he flipped up the lid on the lighter, his thumb spinning the wheel and the flame leaping out to meet the compressed gas from the aerosol can. The fire hit the wendigo in the head and chest, licking down to the ground and up to the ceiling of the tunnel in the confined space. He saw it touch the igniter and turned his head away as the magnesium caught and filled the space with its furious argentine light. The wendigo lurched toward him and he scrambled backwards, the heat rising rapidly in the tunnel, baking the skin of his face, crisping the ends of his hair, his eyebrows and lashes, his beard.

Releasing his grip on the can, he turned in the narrow space, keeping his head down as he half-crouched, half-crawled away from the burning creature. He stopped as he felt the heat receding behind him, turning his head and looking back over his shoulder as the last of the monster fell into a pile of ash on the tunnel floor. His breath caught in a sob and he shook his head impatiently. It was done. He had to get back to his son.

Bobby stared as John emerged from the hole, blood dripping from the open furrows on his face, the skin surrounding them a shiny red and starting to blister.

"It was in there?"

"Yeah." John pushed the lighter back in his pocket.

"How the hell did you get out?" Bobby held up the torch as John turned away, striding down between the trees and undergrowth.

"No idea," he said tersely.

* * *

The long straight saplings extended from either end of the two sleeping bags, shorter, springy boughs holding them apart and supporting the nylon sling, and John and Bobby carried Dean carefully down the trail on the stretcher, the rest of the gear slung from their shoulders or arms.

The Impala was waiting for them, black against the black shadows of the forest, and they opened both rear doors, sliding the stretcher in, removing the saplings and closing the doors, the unconscious boy lying along the back seat. John slid into the driver's seat, twisting the key as Bobby threw the bags and flamethrowers into the trunk, the car was moving before the older man had even managed to shut his door.

It took a little over an hour to get to Park Rapids, and they pulled in front of the Emergency Room access as the sky was lightening in the east. Bobby grabbed a doctor and Dean was lifted out and taken inside as John moved the car to a visitor's spot a few yards away. He staggered as he closed the car door, whipping himself with vicious invective to straighten up, ignore the cracking pain of his face, the marrow-deep tiredness of his body, and get inside.

Bobby intercepted him at the counter.

"He's been taken up to the ICU, John. They're going to have to have a look inside, see what damage was done. Then x-rays for his skull. You won't be able to see him for a while, so get yourself fixed up first, okay?"

John looked past Bobby to the elevators, barely hearing the words. Bobby kept his grip on John's arms, pushing him back toward the waiting doctor, and repeating what he'd said until he was pretty sure that John was actually listening.

"Yeah, okay."

He sat on the bed in the bay and waited impatiently while the doctor cleaned the scratches and put a few stitches in each, then cleaned and dressed the worst of the burns. Bobby nodded as he came out, and led him up to the ICU waiting room, getting them both cups of coffee from the machine down the hall.

When he came back, he saw John sitting in the chair, silent, his body stiff, the muscles tight and bunched in rigid tension.

"John." Bobby stopped beside him, holding out the cup.

After a moment, John's gaze flicked to him and down, and he took the offered coffee, his gaze returning to the spot on the wall opposite. His face was pale and drawn. Bobby wondered uneasily what the man was thinking.

John stared at the wall. Every emotion that he'd repressed and held down over the previous twelve hours had hit him at the same time and he couldn't move, listening numbly to the blistering invective of his own thoughts.

The coffee cooled unnoticed in the cup in his hand, and after an hour, Bobby reached over and took the cup from him, throwing it in the trash.

* * *

"Which one of you is the father?" The doctor came out of the operating room and looked from John to Bobby and back. John turned his head slowly, nodding.

"What the hell happened to your son?" the doctor snapped, belatedly registering the shock in the man's eyes and wishing he'd toned it down as he took in the fresh cuts and blistering on the his face.

"Animal attack, in Chippewa," Bobby said quickly, not sure John would come up with something in his current state.

"Well, the punctures in the abdomen went pretty deep. And they were filled with a lot of dirt, which we've now finally gotten rid of. He's got a nick in his liver, which should heal up. We had to remove a part of his spleen, because it was lacerated too badly, and we've stitched up his stomach because that was punctured as well."

John felt his heart shrivel inside his chest. He couldn't speak, couldn't move and the ice that seeped through his veins was freezing him from the inside out.

"We'll have to give it a few days, make sure that there's no infection present, but he's on antibiotics now, and he's young and strong, so we're hoping for the best."

Bobby looked from the young doctor to John and had to grip the bottom of the chair he was sitting on to stop himself from going over and knocking the idjit out.

"Doc, is he going to be alright?" he asked carefully, through mostly clenched teeth.

"Well, yeah." The doctor looked at him in surprise. "The x-ray showed a hairline fracture along the skull, the gash in the head itself was quite shallow. That's stitched and cleaned out now." He turned back to John. "He'll need to be here for about a week, maybe longer, if there's a secondary infection."

John looked up at him, his brow wrinkling as he tried to make the words make sense to him. Bobby let out a gusty exhale.

"Can we see him?"

"Yes, but only short visits today. He's unconscious and we're keeping him that way until he's stabilised."

"Thanks." Bobby stood and walked stiffly over to John. "Come on."

He reached down and gripped John's arm, feeling the muscle as hard as iron beneath the layers of clothing. "John."

Glancing back at the doctor, Bobby hunkered down in front of John, waiting until his gaze moved down to meet his. "He's okay. He's going to be okay. Let's go see him."

Under his fingers and slowly, he felt the contracted muscle relax as John's eyes cleared and focussed on him. "He's okay?"

"Yeah, he's going to be okay." He pulled and John rose unsteadily to his feet, following Bobby along the corridor.

* * *

The nurse opened the door to the unit and led to them to the bed. John looked down, his breathing quickening again as he saw the multitudes of tubes going in and out of his son. The grey tinge had gone from his skin, though it was still very pale, the scattering of amber freckles standing out against it. The side of his head had been shaved, and the gash stitched, the scalp purple and black around the wound, a thin dressing just covering the opening as the swelling was drained. John picked up Dean's hand, holding it gently in his.

Bobby stood on the other side of the bed. He'd looked over all the monitors, checking for himself that Dean's systems were alright, felt his relief tightening his chest and filling his throat.

"You were right, Bobby."

Bobby looked over at John questioningly. He was still watching his son.

"I should have dropped everything, brought him here first," John continued softly. Bobby saw the tear roll down his cheek, catching in the unkempt beard, the soft light gleaming from it. "It's what you would've done, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean necessarily it was the right thing to do, John." Bobby looked away. He would've moved Heaven and Earth to make sure that the boy survived, but Dean wasn't his son.

"It was though. Family comes first, no matter what." The conviction in John's voice was vituperative, a condemnation aimed at himself.

"You killed the creature, John. And Dean's gonna be fine," Bobby reminded him.

He knew all about hating yourself for choices made, and his heart ached for the man standing on the other side of the bed. What drove him, the choices he faced, were never cut and dried, never easy or simple.

"That's all that matters, innit?"

"No." John shook his head and finally turned to meet Bobby's gaze, his eyes bright. "No, I should have put him first. I should always put them first."

"We do what we can, John. That's all."

* * *

"Hey Sammy," Dean's voice was soft, and somehow gentle, Sam thought.

"Hey, bro."

"How's the school work going?" Dean looked like he was smiling with care. The stitches had come out a couple of weeks ago, but the wound still hurt if the skin was stretched.

"Same old." Sam looked at him closely. His brother's eyes were a little spacey, maybe from the painkillers. His skin was pale, and bruised looking under his eyes. "You alright, Dean?"

"Sure," Dean said, straightening up self-consciously, easing himself higher against the pillows. "They'll let me out in a day or so."

John watched them from a chair on the other side of the bed. Infection had set in three days after the operation, and Dean'd been in the ICU for another week while the doctors had done everything they could think of to get rid of it.

The boy was still weak from that battle, his body's immune system still shaky and slowly recovering. Looking down, John's eyes filled with tears as the memory of that week rose like a fresh corpse in his mind. He didn't think he'd ever been that scared in his life. He forced them back, not wanting either son to see how shaken he still felt.

Bobby had left after the infection had been cleared up. He'd looked like he'd aged ten years as well. John had known that the man had a deep affection for the boys, but he hadn't realised until he'd seen Bobby's face that the hunter loved them. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that, grateful in some ways, resentful in others. His emotions had been a roller coaster for weeks now, and he thought it was probably a good idea to leave it alone until they settled down to some kind of stability.

Jim had called two days ago saying he'd found them a rental in Blue Earth. They'd stay put until next year. Have a quiet Christmas with Jim and Caleb. Sam was doing well at the school there, and Dean was going to need months to recover.

"You okay, Dad?"

He looked up, seeing Dean's face, drawn with concern for him. Somehow he managed to force a smile, hoping it was a reassuring one.

"Better now that you're on the mend," he said honestly, and felt his throat close again as he watched his oldest son duck his head, his uncertainty of how to take that plainly visible.

He needed to give them more, he knew. He needed to give them more of himself, more love, more security. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to do it, but he did know he had to try.

* * *

_Every father should remember that one day his son will follow his example instead of his advice._

_~ Anon_


	14. Chapter 14 The Truth About Lies

**Chapter 14 The Truth About Lies**

* * *

_Pain hardens, and great pain hardens greatly, whatever the comforters say, and suffering does not ennoble, _

_though it may occasionally lend a certain rigid dignity of manner to the suffering frame._

_~ Antonia S Bath_

* * *

_**1995. Nebraska.**_

Ellen looked up as the door opened, her face creasing into a wide smile as she saw the dark haired, rough-looking man who entered, recognising his silhouette against the bright sunshine behind him as much as his features when the bar lights caught his grin as he took another step into the bar.

"God, John, where have you been?" She hurried around the bar and met him half-way across the room, her arms wrapping around him tightly. John smiled down at her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

"Hi, Uncle John." Jo sat at the small table closest to the bar, a pile of books beside her, blonde hair escaping from the two plaits that had been neat and tight in the morning, ink stains on her hands.

"Hey, pumpkin." He looked over at her, his smile widening. "How's the math coming along?"

Jo scowled. "I need your help again. Mom's good with history, and Dad's good with English, but no one around here can help with this math!"

John laughed. "I guess we'd better take a look at it then."

Ellen stepped back, but left an arm around his waist. After Bill, John Winchester was the only other man she really trusted. Solid, loyal, intelligent and brave, she knew she could turn to him if she needed help with anything.

"Finish your homework, Jo – we'll visit with John later, honey," Ellen said, tugging at John's waist. "Bill's in the back, got something to show you."

John walked with her to the door that led back to the office, watching her as she opened it. She looked tired, he thought suddenly, lines around her eyes that weren't there the last time he'd seen her.

"What happened, Ellen?" he asked, touching her cheek lightly. She closed her eyes briefly, looking back at him with a sad smile.

"We lost some people, a couple of months ago. Joseph, and Nate. And Frankie." Her gaze flickered away. "Demon attack in Reno, no one saw it coming. Bill was lucky to get out alive."

Ah, John thought. Aloud, he said, "Bill's not lucky, Ellen, he's damned good at what he does."

She nodded. "I know. Frankie was only nineteen, John. She was pretty good but it didn't matter."

He lifted her face to his, his fingers gentle under her chin, looking into her sherry-coloured eyes. "Ellen, torturing yourself won't bring them back, and it'll only make you make you more scared. Trust me on this, I know."

"I know. I'm trying," she said quietly as she glanced at her daughter. She looked back at him, forcing a smile. "It's good to see you again."

"You too." He looked at the open door, and turned and raised an eyebrow. "You're not coming?"

She shook her head, grimacing. "Business. I prefer to stay out of it as much as possible these days." She glanced over at her daughter again. "Seems safer that way."

John followed her gaze, nodding. He turned away, hearing the door close behind him. Bill's office was down the hall, and he hurried to it, wondering if the demon incursions were increasing, or if he was just getting more information about it now.

Bill looked up as John entered, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Seems like a long time, John."

John shrugged. "Not that long. I thought Ellen was going to knock me down when I came in."

"She's feeling the losses these days." Bill sighed, leaning back in his chair. "How are the boys?"

"Growing fast." John sat in the chair on the opposite of the big desk and rubbed his hand along his jaw, fingers tangling in the beard that needed trimming. "Too fast."

"That's what they do." Bill picked up the folder that lay on the desk in front of him. "Look at this."

John reached over and took it, opening it and starting to read. After a few moments he looked up, his forehead furrowed in consternation.

"This true?"

Bill nodded. "I've verified it six ways from Sunday. Pretty sure it's a gate, and it seems likely it's open right now."

"Did you call Jim?" John looked back at the reports, clippings and photos in the file.

"Can't get hold of him, but this gate is different to the others anyway. Seems to be opening and closing by itself."

John stared at the pictures of the missing children. 1957. 1960. And now 1995. "This guy, Parsons, thinks that it's a dimensional gate?"

Bill snorted. "Yeah. A former Templis Orienti member, he figured that they were responsible. But I looked further back and there have been disappearances from the area since the 1800's. It wasn't them, it's been there a while."

"Are the murders in '56 related?"

"Hard to say. But if a demon got out in '56, then Mack Edwards was probably possessed. Might explain his eagerness for the death sentence, and then jumping the gun with the suicide."

"Yeah." John looked up at him, his brows drawn together. "You think another one has come through?"

"The signs are there, John, right now. Lightning storms. Temblors. Cold spots." He leaned forward, his fingers gripping the desk. "Yeah, I think one has come through, and we have a chance to trap it and get the information you need."

John closed the file and handed it back to Bill, considering the situation, the options. The boys were with Bobby. He hadn't known how long this would take, and it had seemed like a good precaution. He thought Bill was right. It was a unique opportunity to be able to set a trap for a demon, knowing in advance where it would be.

"What are we waiting for?" He looked up with a slight smile. Bill grinned at him.

"Thought you'd feel that way."

* * *

"Joanna Beth, eat your peas." Ellen looked across the table at her daughter with a slight frown.

The Harvelles' home took up the rear and top floor of the roadhouse's building, added on in random chunks by owners over the years. The big kitchen had been Ellen's single demand, built by Bill and a few other hunters three years before, her insistence on it amusing her husband. A wood range sat at one end, the big, scrubbed pine table that took up the middle of the room had multiple functions but was the family dining table for meals. Around the walls, cupboards, open shelves and old-fashioned dressers crowded up against each other and were filled with many more things than just china or food preparation items. The room resembled a cross between a kitchen, workshop and library.

"Don't like peas," Jo muttered, pushing them around her plate, her bottom lip stuck out in mulish protest.

"How long are you two gonna be gone?" Ellen pretended not to notice the remark, and turned back to her husband. "Bill, we've got a parent/teacher conference at school on Friday."

"I know, hon, I haven't forgotten." He tilted his head back slightly, looking at the ceiling. "Four, five days, should be back on Thursday."

She nodded, satisfied. "Well, that's alright then."

Bill grinned at John. "Nothing like having a wife to keep you organised."

Ellen snorted, glancing sideways at the man sitting beside her. "John needs a woman to look after him and the boys," she said pointedly.

Keeping his gaze on his plate, John decided against answering the often-raised comment. It might've been better for his sons to have had a home over the years, to have had a mother to take care of them, but he couldn't force himself into a relationship for practicality's sake, and he couldn't have left the boys' upbringing to anyone else. They needed him, and he needed them, with him, knowing what the world had hidden under its shadow and being strong enough to deal with it.

Jo looked up from hiding her peas under the small pile of mashed potato on her plate.

"You could live here, Uncle John. Mom would look after you." She glanced at her plate. "You'd have to eat your peas but."

John smiled a little, grateful for the diversion. "I like peas, Jo."

He looked across at Ellen, one brow lifted. "Better watch her, she'll have you with a houseful of strays in no time."

Ellen nodded comfortably, her face alight as she looked from her daughter to her husband. She had plenty of love for anyone else who needed it. The life wasn't easy or simple, but having a family made up for a lot of the heartache it brought. She believed that John would come around to that conclusion eventually, if she kept pointing it out.

John hadn't brought the boys back to the roadhouse since the day the demon had walked in. She knew the reason why, it was too risky, given their history, but she regretted that she wasn't getting the chance to know them, that Jo wasn't getting the chance either.

They'd be teenagers, she thought, marvelling at the way the years had flown by. Her memories of them as little boys, hiding under a table, came back, but she was unable to conjure an image of what they might look like now.

* * *

_**1995. Devil's Gate Reservoir, California**_

The drive took twenty-four hours, John and Bill taking four-hour shifts, one sleeping while the other was driving. They pulled into the motel forecourt in Pasadena a little after eight the following morning, nervous systems buzzing with caffeine overload, eyes tired and gritty with the driving and lack of solid sleep.

"This is getting harder every year." Bill got out of the car, stretching his back and neck, leaning against the frame.

"You're telling me." John went into the office, getting them two rooms for the night. He rolled his neck and shoulders as he came out, driving the car to the slot in front of the rooms, and thought longingly of a hot shower.

"Shower and breakfast and then we'll take a look?" Bill suggested as he opened his door, looking sideways to John.

"You read my mind," John agreed, hefting the gear bag and pushing his own door open.

The hot water did help a lot to return the energy levels to his body, he thought, as he reached to turn the taps off. At least the aches from the drive had gone. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked over to the phone on the nightstand, dialling Bobby's number.

"Hi Bobby. Yeah, we're here. Are the boys up?"

He listened to them talk, Dean full of his success with the long range rifle, a brief, muttered comment about a girl the only indication that he wasn't spending all his time on Bobby's makeshift range in the marsh behind the junkyard; Sam talking nonstop of soccer, and school and a new computer the school had, which made looking up research fast and efficient. John's mouth quirked as he listened, his heart expanding softly. Ellen's unsubtle comments came back to him. He knew he would've been lost without his sons. She hadn't needed to point that out. Risking anyone else, though, that wasn't something he could do.

"Put Bobby back on, Sam," he said as the boy seemed to be winding up. The handset was dropped with a loud clunk onto a hard surface and he could distantly Sam yelling around the house for Bobby.

"Yeah, John?"

"The boys still training, Bobby?" John asked. There was a small silence on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, they're shooting, doing the course in the mornings." Bobby's voice was flat.

"They need to keep it up when I'm not around, you know that." John hesitated for a moment, unwilling to criticise the man who had helped him so much, and who, he knew, loved his sons. "You're not doing them any favours by letting them slack off."

"I know, John," Bobby said tiredly. "They're keeping to it."

"All right." John let it go, unwilling to argue the point over the phone. "We're in Pasadena. We'll be here another four, five days, then we'll be heading back to Nebraska. The number here is 555 6942 if there's a problem."

"Got it." Bobby hung up.

John looked at the handset thoughtfully. The two of them weren't seeing exactly eye-to-eye on what was best for his boys at the moment. He hoped he'd be able to smooth it out when he got back. Bobby had told him about Karen last year, a long rambling talk fuelled by whiskey that had lasted until the dawn. He'd ached for the other man's decisions, unable really, to imagine himself in Bobby's place, but he knew that the man had some deep regrets now, after caring for his boys, Bobby'd realised that the past wasn't a predicator of the future.

For himself, he would rather have his sons lose a part of their childhood and be alive, than have those memories and be dead.

* * *

They ate breakfast at the diner on the corner, and looked over the details of the area once again. The disappearances were actually above the Arroyo Seco, which drained flood water and run off from below the reservoir. The brush and scrub land was accessible off the Foothill Freeway, and Bill had marked the locations of the disappearances on the map.

John could feel the tension building in him. He'd made a lot of progress in tracking the yellow-eyed demon through the years, now that he knew what he was looking for. He'd made a lot of side-trips to visit and interview the people who'd come into contact with it over those years. He knew about the children, the '73 children and those who'd come later. And he knew that in two cases of those later children, at least, the power had come early and they had killed others and been killed. He would not let that happen to his son.

Azazel wanted an army, led by humans. Against Lilith. But a war in Hell wasn't the end-game and none of them, not Jim or Bill or Bobby or anyone else he'd deemed safe enough to talk to about it, could figure what the final payoff was.

He shook his head impatiently, pushing the thoughts away. He couldn't afford to be thinking of that now. Couldn't afford even the slightest lapse in concentration. He looked across the table and nodded to Bill.

* * *

They pulled over off Oak Drive, at the beginning of the gravel access road that led up the canyon. Already the day was hot, the sun beating down on them in the open area from a clear blue sky, the heat trapped by the rising sides of the land, and the concrete and asphalt surrounding it.

Bill held an EMF receiver and turned it on, scanning the area. The LED at the lowest end of the scale lit up as he scanned to the north east, and they glanced at each other, crossing the footbridge over the shallow and slowly flowing water and walking into the soft sand and deposited soils along the bank. The EMF readings rose slowly as they moved further north and east, and John rubbed his eyes as a heat distortion seemed to make the air flicker ahead of them.

The gate was there, he could feel it, like a warmer blast of air in the still, dry canyon. He couldn't see it, at least not directly, but when he turned his head away, to look at the houses that lined the southern rim of the canyon, or to the concrete and glass buildings set high above the eastern bank, he could see a flicker of pale colour, like an image viewed through very old and wavy glass, in the periphery of his vision, and he could feel the subsonic hum that vibrated in the fillings in his mouth.

Bill felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising as they approached it, the readings rising now with each step closer. He looked up frequently, unable to make out anything odd in the area in front of them, but like John, he found that if he looked at it from the corner of his eye, he could see a wavering outline, a rhythmical flutter that brought an uncomfortable image of a transparent heart, beating steadily there.

He stopped walking, looking at the readings hit the top of the scale. "It's right here, John."

John nodded, looking around warily. His senses were registering sights, and sounds and smells that weren't there, or were there, but not visible. A thought flashed through his mind about the spectrum of visible – and invisible – light, and he filed it away for future consideration, focussing again on what they were they facing right now.

"I think if we draw the trap here," Bill glanced down at the ground in front of him, "we should get whatever comes through next."

"It won't be as solid as a painted trap." John looked down at the loose soil and sand worriedly. "It won't matter what the demon does inside it, but we won't be able to cross it, if the outer circle goes, it'll break."

"Yeah, but it will hold a demon long enough, I think." Bill glanced up at the blameless sky. "Not likely to get a shower today."

Nodding, John slid his knife from his boot and began to cut through the soft ground. The circle they were using was nine feet in diameter, comprising of an inner and outer edge, and the spaces in between marked with the symbols of Solomon, the wards and sigils that bound and trapped the entities from the lower planes. In the centre, he inscribed the pentacle, the five-pointed star that was the strongest symbol of protection in occult practise. The symbol drew the power of the four key elements and the connection between the soul and heaven as the fifth. It didn't matter that it was esoteric and unprovable, John thought, aligning the corners precisely to the edge of the inner ward. It only mattered that for whatever reason, it worked.

They backed away, splitting up and moving to either side of the trap, settling themselves on the ground, in the sparse shade of the low shrubs that had rooted along the floodway.

Bill watched the readings, occasionally glancing up to look around. He found his thoughts were jumping around, his emotions rising and falling. He tried to thrust them away, knowing that without a clear mind and a single purpose, he would be at risk from a demon, even one that was trapped. Stripped away the thoughts deliberately, he forced himself to breathe deeply as he focussed his attention on a single symbol, shutting everything else out.

The EMF let out a squawk as the readings redlined and the needle flattened to the right. The air over the trap was rippling, a delicate rainbow-edged curtain fluttering in an unfelt breeze. John's eyes widened as he watched the air thicken, somehow, and pull apart, a sliver of darkness elongating and growing in the centre.

Something stepped out of the darkness, onto the soft sand of the bank, its form melting and morphing from an eldritch nightmare into that of an ordinary woman as both feet touched the soil. She stood naked in the trap, long dark hair lifted and tossing around her face as the gate closed behind her, the darkness disappearing, the ripples fading into stillness.

She might have been in her early forties, her body still slender and firm, full breasted, a narrow waist and rounded hips, legs long and shapely. Her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, a deep glossy brown, her eyes a bright blue, her skin smooth and fair.

Bill looked at her and felt his vision double abruptly, the woman's face overlaid by the photographic image of a pretty six year old, Michaela Cunningham, who'd disappeared here in 1957. Dark brown hair, bright blue eyes. He closed his eyes, leaning forward and falling onto his hand at the disorientation of the two images in his mind's eye.

The woman's head snapped around at the movement, staring at him as he half-rose from the shadow of the bush. Her mouth stretched in a wide smile and she lifted her leg, taking a stride toward him before hitting the wall of the trap. The smile disappeared as she looked down, seeing the symbols that held her.

Bill straightened up and walked toward the trap, shaking his head slightly. "Pays to look at what you're stepping in before you step in it," he remarked mildly. "Learned that on my daddy's dairy farm."

"Let me out!" She looked at him, fury etching lines in her face.

"I don't think so." He looked into her face, searching for but not finding even a speck of humanity there. "You were Michaela Cunningham, weren't you?"

She frowned, as if the name were a distant memory of someone else. "I don't remember."

"She was six when she disappeared from here," Bill said softly. "I think she must have run into the gate when it was open."

The frown was replaced by a look of boredom. "If you say so."

"Yeah, I do." He wanted to ask her what had happened to her, all those years in Hell. Had she hid, down in the depths, choking on the brimstone and covering her ears against the screams of the damned? Had she been found? She must have been, he realised, to have come out of the gate looking the way she had before she'd touched the soil of the earth.

"What do you know of a yellow-eyed demon?" John said from behind him. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Nothing."

"I find that hard to believe." John smiled coldly. He pulled out the small bible that held the exorcism ritual from his jacket pocket. "He's one of your bosses."

"Hell has a lot of bosses," she retorted, her gaze fixed on the book. "It's a regular committee down there."

"What is Azazel planning?" Bill asked her, moving slightly to the left, leaving a gap between himself and John, so that she could only look at one of them at a time.

"Nothing new," Michaela said, turning her head to look at him. "They all want out, they all want to be up here, playing hide and go seek in a world full of meatsuits."

"Azazel is building an army," John said, and she had to turn her head again to look back at him. "An army of humans, to lead the demons."

"That's the rumour."

"When will he attack Lilith?" Bill asked, taking a flask from his pocket. Michaela looked down at it.

"No idea."

Bill unscrewed the lid. "Think a bit harder. When?"

"I don't know." She backed to the other side of the trap. "Do you think they hand out memos down there? You two seem to know more about it than I do!"

"What's the plan for the children?" John asked and she turned to him, her gaze flicking between him and the flask in Bill's hand.

"I don't know!" she screamed as a stream of holy water splashed over her from Bill's flask, her skin blistering and burning under the droplets. She turned back to Bill, lips pulled back from her teeth, her eyes a flat black from corner to corner.

"I do know something about you Bill."

"No. You don't." He flicked the flask toward her and another stream of water hit her face and shoulders, her head thrown back as the skin puckered and steamed and the force of her scream drilling into their ears. When it stopped, she lowered her head and stared at Bill, a cruel smile curving the full mouth.

"She's down there, Bill, down there with us, in the heat and the agony and blood," she hissed at him.

"You're a liar. All demons are liars." Bill walked around the edge of the trap, raising the flask again. His heart was hammering in his chest, his breath coming short. He knew what she was talking about it, knew that he had to cut her off, get the conversation back on track before she got any further.

"Not when the truth is twice as painful, Bill, oh no, we don't have to lie then." She pivoted in the trap, her eyes fixed malevolently on him. "She killed herself, you know, after you left. The baby almost died, before the county found her, found it and took it to a home."

"That's not true." Bill shook his head, trying to rebuild his walls, to keep the demon bitch out of his head. He hadn't heard from Joelene since he'd left that day, but it couldn't be true, she wouldn't have done that, she couldn't have done it, not with a baby to look after.

John watched his friend's skin pale, under the tan, stretch taut over the bones.

"Oh, it's true all right. And all suicides come to us." Michaela gave a low chuckle. "You have a son, Bill, eleven years old and living in Arkansas, you could look him up. His name is Randy."

"Bill, don't listen to her …" John saw Bill's muscles bunch under his shirt, saw the tendons standing out on either side of his neck. "Take it easy."

"Wouldn't it be fun if Ellen knew about it?" Michaela asked slyly, watching the man with narrowed eyes. "What you were really up to when you went down to Alabama that weekend? Banging that girl in the moist summer heat while your wife waited at home for you, hoping and praying for you, that you weren't just going to end up a demon snack."

Bill flinched, as if he'd been struck. It had been a mistake, just a single, drunken mistake. Memories flooded his mind and he shook them away viciously, swallowing against them, against the feelings of shame that he'd never managed to deal with. Everyone made mistakes, he'd told John years ago, had their chinks and cracks. He couldn't let this bitch get at him this way. His thoughts focussed on a single idea – no matter what, Ellen couldn't know, it would hurt her, it would destroy them both.

Michaela laughed again, as if she could taste his thoughts, taste his guilt and pain and grief.

"All those virile hunter genes just dying to be passed on." She smiled, and her voice changed, becoming higher, softer, the southern twang distinct, not an imitation but another woman's voice, girlish and plaintive. "_Oh Billy, I'm going to have a baby, help me._"

John watched Bill flinch back again, the hunter's face screwing up as he struggled with the memories the demon was invoking. He turned his head away from the demon and opened the bible in his hand, his fingers scrambling for the ritual at the back.

"Oh Billy, don't leave me." She grinned, her voice returning to her own. "But you did, you walked out of that tiny, stinking apartment and left her to take the pills and slice herself with the old-fashioned straight razor, her blood pouring through the water –"

"You fucking bitch!"

John's head snapped up as he heard the murderous tone of Bill's voice. "Bill, no–!"

He couldn't have gotten to the other man in time, no matter how fast he'd moved. Bill's foot crossed into the trap. The demon looked down and screamed, a high savage cry as she brought her hands together and raised them up above her head, the silent reverberations of a thunderclap rippling through the air as she brought them together.

Bill was flung upwards, his body twisting in the demon's mental grip. John staggered toward him, seeing the hunter's shirt and jacket shredded suddenly, blood splattering into the air as the invisible claws rent his flesh from throat to groin. He saw the bright red flood that soaked instantly through the remains of his clothes, saw his head snap back as something struck it, the bones breaking under the force of the impact.

_"BILL!" _

He heard his own scream distantly, and felt the grip of his gun in his hands, felt the sharp flex of muscle as his finger pulled on the trigger, the rounds booming out, stitching a line of black holes into the demon woman, leaving bright red splotches against her skin.

Corporeal she was, coming out of the gate in her own body, a body that had gone in thirty-eight years before, and the bullets hit the heart and lungs, liver and stomach and intestines in quick succession, the last two in the clip drilling through her head.

Bill fell to the ground as she crumpled, bouncing off the sand limply. John ran, dropping to his knees beside him, slipping a hand beneath his neck as he looked down. He could see Bill's guts, the bright reds and purples and mauves of his organs, shining wetly in the sunlight. He looked at his friend's face, one side a massive contusion, swelling even as his life's blood was running out of him, his eyes open, filled with agony.

"Don't try to talk, you're going to be okay," John whispered, knowing it was a lie as he watched blood bubble from Bill's mouth. Bill gagged, unable to pull in a breath, the air whistling as it escaped through the rents in his lungs.

"Don'–" the word came out thick and broken. "don' … tell … Ell."

John looked down at him, his heart surrounded by ice and ash and nodded. "I won't, Bill. I won't."

"P-p-prom …" Bill's dark eyes opened wide suddenly, staring into John's.

"I promise," John said quickly. "I promise, Bill."

He felt his throat close up, his chest become tight as the muscles tensed around it. Bill's eyes were still open, but they saw nothing. His chest no longer rose and fell. The blood still leaked from his body onto the ground, staining the sand red, but it had slowed, no longer pumped out because his heart had stopped.

"God." John closed his eyes, leaning protectively over his friend. "God, no."

* * *

John drove through the night and into the next morning, heading east and north, the sunlight shining onto his face despite the visor. On the back seat, Bill Harvelle lay, wrapped closely in several sheets from the motel, still and silent, blood still seeping a little and reddening the linen where it touched the upholstery.

He drove on autopilot, his eyes seeing the road, the traffic, the scenery flashing past, his hands and feet controlling the car, speeding up or down, changing lanes, making turns. But his mind was not present in the driving.

His thoughts churned and whirled, a maelstrom of chaos, from which only two things were clear. He had to keep his promise to Bill. And he had to find a story to tell Ellen. Something that she couldn't question, that she couldn't find holes in, something that would keep her from ever knowing the truth of what had happened to her husband down in the dry canyon in Pasadena.

His heart sank as he came down the Rockies into Denver, bypassing the city on the interstate and leaving the mountains behind him, the plains lying ahead. He knew what he would say to her, knew that it would be the one thing that she wouldn't question, wouldn't doubt. He would lose her; lose their friendship, and another part of his support network. But better that she lose her faith in him, look at him without trust or concern, than lose her faith in the man she loved, the one who had fathered her child and been closest to her.

He wiped at his eyes impatiently, brushing away the fresh tears that spilled from them.

* * *

_**1995. Nebraska**_

Ellen heard the throaty growl of the Impala's engine pulling into the gravel lot at the front of the building and smiled, wiping her hands quickly on the bar towel. She hurried around the end of the bar, and ran to the door, throwing it open as the car came to a stop outside. She could see John, sitting in the driver's seat, and a tiny thread of unease slipped down her spine.

He must be sleeping, she thought, that's why I can't see him. Even then, there was a part of her that knew it wasn't the truth but she turned away from it.

John got out of the car slowly, wearily. He shut the door and looked at the building, his shoulders slumping as he saw Ellen in the doorway. She was still holding the door, her eyes searching the car, then lifting to his face, her smile disappearing as she took in his appearance. He knew his eyes were swollen and shadowed, his face drawn. He walked up the steps to the door, and looked down at her, seeing her fear rising slowly behind her eyes.

"Where's Bill?" Ellen heard her voice crack slightly, and tightened her grip on the door to stop the tremble in her fingers.

"Ellen … I'm so sorry."

"No." She looked past him, to the car again. "No. Don't tell me that, John. Where's Bill?"

"He's in the car." He took a breath. "Ellen, he's gone. I'm sorry."

"NO!" she snapped at him and ran past him down the stairs, thumping into the car as she pressed her hands against the windows, her eyes flashing over the front seat and then focussing on the wrapped body in the back. "No, no Bill, not Bill, no."

She had known, deep down, that this day would come. Knew it the way women had always known it, those who married policemen, or firemen, test pilots or soldiers. Knew that skill could only go so far, and luck only lasted so long before fate would find a loophole.

John walked up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders, feeling the shudders run through her. She turned suddenly and pressed against him, her arms sliding under his jacket, her face crumpled against his chest. He put his arms around her and held her tightly as her breath started to hitch and the sobs came, slowly at first, and then uncontrollably.

He wanted to weep with her. She would be facing her grief alone, soon. She would ask what had happened. And he would tell her. And that would be that.

She pulled back from him, her face wet and eyes shining, and he looked down at her sadly.

"Can you …" she started and stopped, her throat too thick to continue. Swallowing forcefully, she closed her eyes, counting to herself, forcing her pain back. "C-c-can you bring him inside, please, John?"

He nodded and let her go, opening the back door of the car, and sliding his arms under the body. He shifted his grip as he drew Bill out of the car, tightening the muscles of the arm holding the shoulders and curling his other arm around the knees. Bill had been a big man, and it was only through an effort of will that he was able to lift him like this, carrying him up the steps and into the bar.

Ellen stood beside the pool table, uncaring if the felt was ruined. She couldn't bear the thought of him on the floor, and she had to see. For herself. Her mind wouldn't let her not see.

John lifted the wrapped body onto the table, and stood back as Ellen gently lifted the sheet aside, her face blank as she looked at her husband's face, at the wounds that had torn the life from him. She was cold, a cold that went all the way through her, down to the marrow in her bones. She replaced the wrapping, tucking it gently under him and turned slowly to John.

"What happened?"

John straightened slightly, sucking in a breath. "It was my fault, Ellen."

He lifted his head, his eyes staring straight into hers, no turning away now, no weakness for her to mull over later on. "The demon came out and Bill was moving to lead it into the trap, it was almost there, but I came out too soon, I couldn't see that it wasn't in, and I should have waited but I didn't. It turned on him straight away, before I could do anything to stop it."

He watched her face, her expressions changing from pain to disbelief, as the words sank into her, to anger and then revulsion as she made herself understand what he was saying, made herself see the picture that the words painted in her mind.

"I'm so sorry, Ellen."

"Don't you say that to me, John." She stared at him. "Don't you dare fucking say that to me." She was shaking, her whole body shaking as if she'd gripped a live wire. "He trusted you!"

"I know." He let his eyes drop finally, staring at the floor, feeling the rage that radiated out from her. "I know he did."

"How could you?" She could hear her voice rising, grief braided with rage now, the betrayal of this man – _this_ man – almost as unbearable to her as the death of her husband. "How could you …?"

"It was a mistake." He lifted his gaze again, stepping toward her as he saw her knees sag, her hand reach out to grip onto the table behind her.

"Don't you come near me!" she shrieked at him, and she straightened, as anger fed strength to her muscles, shunting aside the crushing despair. "Don't you ever come near me, John."

He stepped back, flinching involuntarily. He'd known it would be like this, but seeing it … seeing her turn the rage to hatred, her small fists clenched by her side … the revile in her eyes cut through him to the bone.

"Ellen–"

"Go away. Go far away, John," Ellen told him, barely noticing the ache in her palms as her fingernails dug in through her skin. She couldn't control the feelings that were juggernauting through her, he'd taken her Bill, through carelessness and stupidity, had taken him from her.

For a moment, as she closed her eyes and dragged in breath after breath, trying to find a single place that she could stand without falling, she wondered at what she was doing, then it vanished under the image of Bill's bloodless face. Her family was shattered. And the man who'd been supposed to protect Bill, to back him up and keep him safe, stood in front of her and had told her he hadn't. Both of them had known how driven John Winchester was. Both of them had known.

"Was he just bait to you, John?!" she asked, her eyes flying open to stare at him accusingly. "Just someone else to help you find you want and never mind what the costs are?!"

"No! Ellen–I–"

"Goddamn you to Hell!" she spat at him, not wanting or able to hear anything else from him now. "I hate you, you hear me? Hate you for what you've done, what you've taken. You get the hell out of here and you don't come back." She stood there, shaking helplessly. From the corner of her eye she could see the appointment on the calendar to one of the bar. The school. Dear God, he'd taken more than her husband … he'd taken her daughter's father and she couldn't face having to tell Jo that her father was never coming back. "You don't come back here – ever! - because if I see you again, I'll kill you."

John nodded once and turned away, his face stiff as he walked to the door. He stopped for a second as he opened it, looking back over his shoulder. Ellen leaned over the table, her arm over her husband's body, her cries getting louder as grief drowned her.

Closing the door quietly behind him, he walked down the steps numbly and got into the car. He'd kept his promise. Destroyed another friendship. Lost another person. Lost all of them, he realised vaguely as he started the engine and the black car rumbled beneath him. Turning the wheel, he pulled out of the gravel lot slowly, turning left onto the road, and heading north.

* * *

"Mom?" Jo edged into the room, looking from the table to the crumpled form of her mother, at its base. "Mom, what happened?"

Ellen looked up, seeing her daughter's face, seeing the fear that was beginning to show.

"Oh, Jo," she sniffed, wiping away the fresh tears that rose with the thought of what she had to do next.

"I heard you shouting." Jo walked closer, her eyes moving between the sheet-wrapped object on the pool table and her mother's face. "I heard you shouting at Uncle John."

Ellen felt her grief rising again, and took a deep breath, trying to force down her pain so she could explain. Explain, she though hopelessly. How the hell could she ever explain something she couldn't understand or accept for herself to the girl?

"What's that?" Jo stared at the pool table, seeing the red stains on the sheets, seeing the shape beneath the wrapping. Ellen got to her feet, walking the couple of feet to her daughter, putting herself between Jo and the body of her husband. Her arms closed tightly around the little girl, and she rested her cheek against her daughter's hair.

"Jo, honey, Daddy's …" She bit her lip, trying to think of a kinder way to say it. There were no really kind ways, she knew, but she couldn't be blunt right now, couldn't just say it the way it was. "Daddy …"

"That isn't …" Jo closed her eyes, pressing harder against her mother. "Is that …?"

Ellen nodded, clearing her throat again. "Daddy died, honey. On the hunt with John."

"No, Mom." Jo's face scrunched up as she shook her head. "Dad was too good, he couldn't die."

And he wouldn't have died, if the man she'd thought of as a friend had done his job properly. Had not been so consumed by his own need for revenge that he'd let her husband walk into a trap alone. She tightened her grip around her daughter, leaning her cheek against Jo's soft, fine hair.

"I'm sorry, Jo," she whispered. "He – John –"

"No," Jo said stubbornly, pulling away from her mother. "No, I don't believe it."

She reached out suddenly, catching the edge of the sheet and yanking it back before Ellen could stop her. For a moment, both stood statue-still, Jo staring at her father's face, Ellen staring at her daughter. She wasn't sure if seeing Bill wouldn't be better faced by Jo now.

Her anger ran out and all that was left was an aching sorrow and a tiredness that she thought would never leave her.

"John brought him back, he …" She couldn't go on with that. What was the point of spreading her hate to her daughter. John had been a part of their family, had been around enough to watch Jo grow up, to become 'Uncle' in their small family unit. She couldn't bring herself to tell her the truth of what had happened to Bill. One day, maybe, she would tell her about it. But not today.

"Why did Uncle John leave?" Jo asked, not understanding, feeling herself filling up with tears as it slowly came to her that her father wouldn't come in through the door, grab her around the waist and swing her high into the air. "Why didn't he stay?"

"He had to go, honey. He just had to go."

* * *

_**1995. Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

John drove. He drove automatically, changing gears, making turns. He drove without thinking of what he was doing or where he was going, his destination a foregone conclusion. Behind his shock and behind his pain, Ellen's voice screamed at him.

He made the straight shot up the 77, driving through the small towns without seeing them, his speed a steady eighty, and got onto the interstate, the white lines of the lane narrowing his entire existence to the road, the car, his thoughts. He followed the signs to Sioux Falls and turned off before the city, skirting the suburbs and winding through the county roads to the scrapyard.

His mouth was dry, his head already pounding mercilessly by the time he'd crossed the state line. He'd filled the car in Nebraska, and had another coffee, but he knew that he was operating on adrenalin and will alone now. He'd driven non-stop from Pasadena to the roadhouse, and the final four hours in the car was leeching the last of his reserves.

He pulled into the gateway of Bobby's yard just after three, the car rumbling softly between the rows of junkers as he approached the house. He could feel reaction setting in, the fatigue eating at him. Rubbing his hand over his face, he tried to will a little more strength into his aching body. This wasn't the last stop. He couldn't rest here.

Dean was working in the shed with Bobby when they heard the car come in, and the hunter hid a grin as the boy carefully replaced the tools he'd been working with before he ran outside to see his father. Sliding out from under the pickup truck, Bobby sat up, wiping his hands on the rag permanently hanging from one pocket, and got to his feet.

"Dad … are you all right?" Dean stopped dead in the yard, a few feet from the car as he saw his father's face, his eyes widening as he took in the new lines bracketing his mouth, the older ones deeply etched into the skin, the black shadows that surrounded reddened and swollen eyes.

"Yeah, I'm all right. Where's Sam?" John slid out of the car, and leaned against its side for a moment, waiting until the tremble in his legs had passed.

"He's in the house." Dean half-turned as he heard Bobby come up behind them.

"Go get him, Dean. Get packed up, we gotta go."

His son nodded and ran for the house, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

Bobby looked at John, his eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his cap. "You look like hell."

John glanced at him, nodding tiredly. "Feel like it too. Everything been all right here?"

"Yeah, sure." Bobby looked more closely at the younger man's face. "What happened?"

"Bill's dead. Demon got him," John said shortly, closing his eyes.

"Balls," Bobby said softly. "How's Ellen?"

The sound that came from John's throat was difficult to identify. "Angry. In pain. Devastated. Hurting."

"You all right?"

"No."

"There's plenty of room here, John. You should stay on for a couple of days, get right again," Bobby suggested diffidently. "Sam's got a game on Saturday, he's been looking forward to it, you could watch him play."

John shook his head. "No. We've got to head out."

"Why?" Bobby heard the disapproval in the tone of his voice and hurried to cover it. "I mean, you look like you could use a rest, and the game, well it's real important to Sam."

John opened his eyes and looked at Bobby, feeling an irrational anger rising at the man's reasonable offer. "Sam has to learn that games aren't as important as people, Bobby. Nor as important as what we do."

"Sure, but what's the rush?" Bobby said. He could hear the anger in John's voice easily enough, he tried to damp his own as he realised that the boys would once again be forced into losing another chunk of childhood thanks to whatever had happened in California.

"It's my decision." John tried to push away the anger, knowing that most of what he was feeling was a reaction to what had happened, what he'd had to do.

Bobby looked away, at the cars surrounding them, at the tree tops beyond the teetering piles of junk. He could see that John was at the absolute limit of his strength, could see that whatever had happened to Bill had taken a bite from the man standing next to him, but he couldn't stand by forever letting John screw up the boys' few moments of real childhood.

"John, you're pushing them too hard," he said slowly, keeping his gaze averted. "They need some normal stuff in their life, some kid stuff. They need –"

"Bobby, don't tell me what my boys need, okay?" John's voice was very soft, almost gentle.

Bobby looked back to him, hearing the warning beneath the softness, and over that, hearing something else. Something that pierced him with its selfishness. Something that sounded like _they're not yours_.

"Someone has to," he snapped in reaction to that something, without thinking about it. "You're not giving them a chance to be themselves, John. You could leave them here for a week or so if you've got to be doing something, they're doing all right here."

Later on, he would think that if he'd just let this one go, things would have been very different. If he'd just given John a little more time to deal with what had happened, instead of forcing it down his throat when he could clearly see that the man had had enough … but hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

On the steps of the house, Dean and Sam stood silently, bags held forgotten in their hands as they watched their father straighten up and turn menacingly to the other man.

"Bobby, I really appreciate everything you've done for us, for looking after the boys and for everything you've taught me, shared with us. But they're my boys, not yours, and I'll make the godamned decisions about what we do and when we do it – do you understand that?"

"John –" Bobby felt his hackles rise as he recognised the threat in John's stance.

"Do you think for a minute that I'd leave them with you, knowing that you couldn't even look after your own godamned wife?"

Bobby felt the words like a blow to his guts. He dragged in a breath as fury broke through, fuelled by guilt and pain.

"You had your chance for your own, Bobby, but you were too gutless to take it, so don't you fucking well tell me how to raise mine!" John continued, his voice rising as the irrational anger was fed by his uncertainties of what he was doing, of what had happened, and the doubt that lived in him, all the time, that there might be a better way to raise his sons.

Bobby turned without thought or volition, his hand reaching for the shotgun that leaned against the shed wall behind him, always loaded, always ready. He swung the barrel up at John, the click of the gun being cocked loud in the sudden silence of the yard.

"Get the hell off my property," his voice came out low and mean, a grating sound that was all anger. "You get the hell off my property before I kill you."

John looked up at the house, jerking his head at the boys. He waited until they were in the car, silent, their faces white as they watched Bobby lower the barrel until it was centred over their father's chest. Then John looked at Bobby coldly.

"Glad to." He slid into the car, turning the key and pulling away from the house fast, sending gravel spraying back behind the tyres.

Bobby watched the car turn out of the drive, onto the road, before he lowered the gun. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the air pumping in and out of his lungs but giving him no oxygen. His heart was racing, and he could feel sweat covering his face, slick on his hands. John had only said what he thought himself about Karen and his stupid decision about family, but he couldn't take it from another, could barely take it from himself.

He uncocked the gun and set it down next to the shed, his knees sagging as he felt behind for the chair that sat there, placed to catch the morning sun. He put his head into his hands, and closed his eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than he'd ever felt in his entire life.

* * *

John stared at the long ribbon of black road ahead of the car. His eyes were closing and the tremble in his muscles wasn't going away any more. He was going to have to stop. Behind him, Dean and Sam sat silently in the back, staring out of the windows, unable to break the silence, their thoughts chaotic and fearful as they tried to understand what had just happened.

The car swerved suddenly, fishtailing as John woke and wrenched the wheel, getting them off the gravel shoulder and back onto the asphalt. He glanced in the rearview mirror and met Dean's wide eyes, seeing the worry in them, the fear behind that. He took his foot off the accelerator and eased the car back onto the shoulder, pulling up.

"Dean, get up here. Need you to drive," he commanded tiredly, leaving the engine running but taking the car out of gear as his son opened the door and walked around the rear. He slid over to the passenger side and nodded as Dean got into the driver's side.

"Head west," John said, waving at the road ahead of them. "Wake me when we get to the next town with a motel."

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting his brother's eyes. "Yes, sir."

John closed his eyes and leaned up against the door as the car pulled out again, the rumble of the engine and the steady whir of the rubber over the road lulling him to sleep.

* * *

_Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is; _

_for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off._

_~ Lucretius_


	15. Chapter 15 The Scent of Magic

**Chapter 15 The Scent of Magic**

* * *

_When it is dark enough, you can see the stars._

_~ Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

_**1995. Missoula, Montana**_

"Dean!"

John's roar echoed through the small house. In the bedroom the boys shared, Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. He got up and walked out to the living room.

"Yessir?"

John tossed the car keys to him. "Dinner run." He bent his head to the piles of paper sitting in front of him again.

Dean caught the keys, nodding happily, and walked over to the front door. He lifted his jacket from the hook behind it. Dinner run, okay then.

"And not that crappy burger place again," John added, glancing at him with a grimace. "Find something decent this time."

"Okay." He pulled the jacket on, and looked over his shoulder. "Sam, you coming?"

"Takes two to get burgers?" John muttered to himself. Dean ignored the comment as Sam came out of the room. The younger boy glanced at his father, and pulled his jacket off the hook, shrugging it on. He followed his brother out of the door.

Dean started the engine, wrapping his fingers around the wheel, his mouth curving into the small, private grin he got whenever he drove her. He'd had his licence for two months now, and still hadn't tired of the pleasure of being a legal driver.

"How long d'ya think this is going to last?" Sam gestured back to the house as they pulled onto the street.

"No idea." Dean glanced in the rearview mirror. "How long did he take him to get over Geny's death?"

"About a year," Sam said, trying to remember. But that had been mainly sadness. This was different.

"Guess that's how long it'll take then," Dean said, easing the car through the gears as he turned on to the larger thoroughfare.

Sam shook his head. "This is different, Dean. He's lost more than one friend this time." He hunched down in his seat. "And only Bill died."

"He'll get over it when he gets over it," Dean told him with a shrug. He didn't want to think about his father's moods right now. He was driving. That was enough to let him forget about anything.

Sam wasn't so sure. They'd driven in silence from South Dakota to Chicago, spent two weeks there doing nothing while Dad went out every day, coming home barely able to walk and collapsing onto the couch for the night, to do it all again the next day. He and Dean had taken care of themselves, uncertain even of what had happened, knowing only that something bad had. Then one morning, their father had gotten up, had a shower and trimmed his beard, gotten into clean clothes and they'd driven to Iowa.

Iowa hadn't been bad, he thought. They were there for a month, in a rented apartment, instead of a motel. Dad had been researching, he and Dean had gone to school again, and things had kind of settled down a bit. One evening, Dad had told them what had happened – a bit of it, anyway. Bill had been killed in California. They'd met Bill a couple of times, usually at Jim's. He'd been a nice guy. Their father hadn't really explained what had happened with Bobby, and Sam found he couldn't remember many details of that day. He remembered Dean having to drive, because his father had gone to sleep while he was driving, and run them off the road. He didn't know why Dad had been so tired.

Two weeks ago it had all changed again. Their father was angry again, and short with them, and they'd driven through the night from Storm Lake to Missoula. He'd been surprised to find that when they'd arrived, their father already had a rental organised, and they were back in school the next day.

Dean had been foolish enough to bring up Bobby once, a week ago. Sam still cringed at the memory of the blistering attack that had followed. His brother had gone very white beneath his freckles and light tan and hadn't spoken to either of them for two days. Since then, they hadn't said anything out of normal day to day conversation and their father hadn't offered anything different either. It was an uneasy peace at best, he thought.

Dean drove right around the centre of town, focussing his entire attention on the car and the task he'd been set. They checked out a half dozen takeout places, rejecting most of them when he hadn't been sure they'd meet his father's preferences.

He'd pushed the incident with his father away, buried it as deeply as he could, and he was trying his best to obey every order and every command to the letter, trying to get back to where he and his father weren't just civil to each other again. Walking along the main street, he breathed a small, quiet sigh of relief when they found a place that did a variety of takeout food, getting burgers and barbequed chicken, fries and slaw. The place had been clean, the other customers well-dressed and he hoped that there would be something in what they'd bought that would be acceptable. He opened the window as they drove back to the house, the car filled with a thick fog of aromas.

* * *

John looked up again as they came back in, setting paper sacks down on the kitchen counter. The dining table had been designated a work desk and nothing but their father's notes and research was allowed on it. They'd started eating breakfast and dinner standing up at the counter, eating fast, foregoing plates for the simplicity of eating off the wrappings and throwing them away.

"What'd you get?" He stood and stretched, walking over to the counter.

"Uh … chicken and slaw, burgers. there was a good place down on 3rd Street." Dean passed the third sack to his father.

John opened and took out the food, clearing a space beside the sink to unwrap it and eat it. He ate quickly, squashing the wrappings into a ball and dumping them in the trash can then went to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

"You boys got homework or anything?"

They shook their heads.

"Alright, come and look at this." He went to the table and sat down, shifting a file from the stack and opening the one underneath. "Two families, torn to shreds in their homes."

Dean finished his burger and wadded up the wrapping. "Torn to shreds? Werewolf?"

John shook his head. "No, much more savage than that." He looked at them. "The whole house was smashed, inside. The police report is more imaginative than usual – says that the victims looked like they'd been put into a blender."

Sam swallowed hard at the involuntary mental image that popped into his head and gave up on the rest of his food. He put it in the trash, and went to get a glass of water.

"What d'you think?" Dean frowned as he tried to imagine anything that could do that. "Witchcraft?"

"Of a sort, yeah. I was looking up what I could find that might be related today in the library." He pushed a sheaf of papers toward his eldest son. "Take a look."

Dean picked up the papers and started reading, his eyebrows rising. "Elemental? That's pretty serious hocus-pocus, isn't it?"

"Not really witchcraft – at least, it's a spell, and a very difficult one – but the witch has to be psychic, no other way to control the elemental," John agreed, looking down at the book from which he'd been taking his notes. "_The elemental is raised in a circle, but the control comes from the psychic_."

"Is there anything in common between the families?"

"Yeah. The University, here. The father of one family was a professor, the mother of the other family also a lecturer."

"It seems a bit much for a student."

"Just a tad." John smiled wryly. "Both professors had a run in with a researcher."

"What kind of research?" Dean looked at his father, his thoughts jumping ahead. "Something in the paranormal area?"

"Yahtzee." John nodded. "Apparently the professors cut off the grant money for the research."

Dean's brows rose. "Harsh."

"Yeah."

He watched as his father pulled out another file. "The father of this family was also on the committee that cut off the grant."

Dean opened the file and looked down at the photograph of a mild-looking man, in jeans and sweater and jacket, smiling at the camera. "He dead too?"

"Not yet." John looked at him. "They moved shortly after the decision, not because of it, apparently both parents are academics, and they got a better offer at another university. This man," He tapped the photograph, "specialises in sleep disorders."

"The cops must have put this together too." Dean leaned back against the counter, frowning.

"Oh, they did." John confirmed readily. "They just can't figure out how to charge the woman with murder when she was three hundred miles away and the victims appear to have been killed by an ice tornado in their homes."

"Tricky."

John snorted, his mouth lifting slightly to one side. "Very."

"Where's the third family?" Dean looked down at the man's face again.

"Spokane," Sam said quietly from the couch. "They have a special research programme in sleep disorders and sleep patterns."

Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Geek."

John grinned at his youngest son. "You're right. And that's where they are. The Morgans moved there six weeks ago."

Sam shrugged. He'd been looking at colleges and universities for the past three months. He was glad that his father and brother hadn't noticed the significance of that knowledge.

"We moving again?" he asked his father.

"No, we'll keep this place on." John looked down at his notes. "I can't find the researcher, and the police haven't got any leads either."

"When are we going to Spokane?" Dean asked.

John looked at his watch. "Now."

* * *

"Keep an eye out for the turnoff, it's before the city." John glanced at Dean, sitting in the passenger seat next to him. "Rural route 7."

"Yessir."

Dean flicked on the small pen light, looking over the map he held for the exits that came before the one he wanted. He'd learned to be a careful and thoroughly prepared navigator for his father from a much younger age.

"Sam? You awake?" John looked into the rearview mirror, seeing Sam sit up, rubbing his eyes. "Listen up, you two. An elemental has very little vulnerability. We can disrupt the form with iron pellets but it will reform quickly. Salt, and iron and gold wire are protection against one, but for a limited time only, depending on the strength of the psychic and of the spells with which it was originally created. It will attack only the targets it's been keyed to, but if you get in the way, you'll be killed as well."

The boys were silent.

"The elemental that this psychic is using is Air. It takes the form of a tornado, or whirlwind, and whatever it picks up it can use to kill the victim. So any broken glass, knives, broken pottery will become deadly weapons within it. The force of the air speed alone is sufficient to shred skin from bone, even if it doesn't pick up anything else."

"What if it comes while we're there?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"Then you stay out of the way of it," his father told him, looking into the mirror again and meeting Sam's eyes. "I mean that, you stay away from the house and anything that the family owns."

Sam nodded.

"There's the turnoff." Dean pointed at the sign ahead, his voice low and subdued. "The house seems be up a secondary road."

John looked at his watch. It was just after ten. The other two attacks had taken place in the early morning hours, when the families were sleeping. He hoped that the elemental would follow the same pattern. He turned onto the narrow blacktop road and slowed down.

"Second on the right, Dad."

John nodded. They passed the first gravel road turnoff, and overshot the second, the turn shielded by thick trees on both sides. John reversed and drove up, the tyres crunching over the mix of gravel and dirt. The trees towered along the roadside, making it seem as if they were driving through a tunnel, the headlights splashing off them in vivid stills of green and black.

"Next right and we follow it to the end." Dean folded the map and tucked it away with the pen light. There was nothing to see in the darkness, just the trees crowding the road, any other houses were set well back behind them.

The last section of road was dirt, lumpy with potholes and gutters, slippery with the pine needles over the surface. The house, a cabin really, emerged at the end, the windows dark, and the place eerily quiet.

John pulled around in front, and shut off the engine, leaving the headlights pointing at the front. Even from the car they could see the glass along the front of the house had been smashed out, the front door was open, the frame splintered and torn.

"Godammit," John said softly. "Get the shotguns from the trunk, Dean. One for Sam as well."

He slid out of the driver's side, and walked up onto the narrow porch, the wide beam of his flashlight playing over the destruction. Dean and Sam came up behind him, shattered glass shards crackling under their boots soles. They followed him inside warily, guns loaded and cocked.

John turned right as they entered, looking around the corner of the large room that had been a kitchen. Appliances were strewn over the floor, smashed into pieces, glass and plastic and ceramic shards covering the wide boards. Food had been thrown across the area, splattered against the walls. He walked slowly to the other side, picking up a lamp that had fallen from a table but was mostly intact, switching it on. Under its gentle glow, the room looked worse.

"It's too late, Dad, we're too late."

"Double check, Dean. We'll go right through. Take the lower floor, I'll check the upstairs. Sam? Go with your brother." John picked his way over to the staircase, and started up, his ears straining to hear any sound.

"Yessir."

He glanced down when he reached the landing at the top, seeing Dean moving carefully through the wreckage, Sam following with equal care, placing his feet exactly where his brother had put his, both holding their guns ready.

Turning into the hallway at the top of the stairs, he walked slowly along it, checking each room as he came back. The bedrooms had been stripped and shredded, the mattresses torn apart, the ribbons of linen spread across the floors, but there were no signs of blood or bodies there. There was little left to give even a possible idea of the time of the attack.

The last room on the second floor was a study, and he was surprised to find it barely touched. He opened the filing cabinet and started looking through the files. They were mostly personal, the family's accounts and correspondence and he turned to the desk, looking at the sender of the letter that sat in the middle of the blotter.

He picked it up, thrusting it into his shirt as he heard a muted thud from downstairs. Walking fast back to the staircase, he looked over the banister as Dean called out.

"Dad! There's a survivor!"

John stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking at the little girl lying on the floor, her head cradled in his son's lap.

"She's alive?" He knelt beside her, repressing his feelings as he saw the extent of the shape she was in. "Turn her over, Dean."

The boy lifted her shoulders and turned her, and John lifted away the long copper-red hair, dulled with dust and blood, pulling gently at the remnants of the cotton nightgown, his indrawn breath harsh as he saw the long deep claw wounds that had rent the slender back. He felt Dean's eyes on him, and knew he'd realised too how close the child had come to losing her spine.

"We'll have to clean this mess out. Sam, call 911, get an ambulance and the police," he said, uncomfortably aware of how hard his heart was pounding as he looked at the depth of the wounds, the amount of dirt and debris that filled them. Cleaning them out, enough to ensure that infection couldn't set in, was not going to be easy. He pulled the small first aid kit from his bag and opened it.

"They're coming," Sam said quietly.

John nodded. "Sam, see if you can find clean water in the kitchen, and salt and any alcohol." He looked back at Dean.

"Is she conscious?"

His son looked at the girl, tilting his head to see more of her face. "I think so."

John felt his heart sink. It had to be done, he couldn't leave the wounds the way they were, but he hated the thought of what he was going to have to do. "You'll have to hold onto her, Dean, hold her tight, this is going to hurt."

He took the pan of water and bottle of cooking brandy from his youngest son, setting them down beside him. Sam passed him the salt and he poured a cup into the water, waiting for it to dissolve. He opened a sealed pack of gauze and dipped the swab into the water, soaking it and squeezing it over the wounds, irrigating them and sluicing the loose dirt from them. Under his son's hands, the girl began to shake, and he lifted his eyes briefly to see Dean gripping her hands tightly, his face taut, his jaw set.

"I know. I feel the same way," he said quietly, his stomach churning as he turned his gaze back to the wounds, trying to ignore the shudders that wracked the child's slight frame.

"Sam, get the dressings ready. As soon as I've finished this, they'll have to go straight on."

John dropped the soaked swabs on the floor and picked up the bottle of brandy, unscrewing the lid. Next to him, he heard Dean's indrawn breath, knew that his son's too-vivid imagination was already torturing him over what he had to do.

He tipped the bottle over the first of the claw marks, and forced himself to keep it steady as she arched backward under him, her high scream paralysingly loud in the silence of the room. From the corner of his eye he saw Sam start, almost dropping the dressings he held, and flashed him a warning look. He glanced at Dean, saw the boy's muscles flex as he tightened his grip, his eyes shut tightly, tears forcing their way from underneath the lashes, his hands and arms trembling with the horror of holding the girl still as the alcohol burned in her flesh.

She suddenly went limp and John released his breath, grateful that the pain had finally pushed her into unconsciousness. His glanced flicked to Dean's face and he saw that he was also relieved that she'd gone beyond the agony now.

He cleaned the alcohol quickly from her back, peering closely at the cuts, making sure that nothing had been left inside them, then took the dressings from Sam and laid them over the wounds, taping them down firmly. He leaned back and pulled in a deep breath. _God save me from ever having to do that again_, he thought grimly.

He turned and packed up the kit, rolling from his knees onto his feet. "Dean, can you lift her?"

Dean looked up at him and nodded, rolling back from his knees onto the balls of his feet and slipping his arms around her, careful not to touch her back, letting her head roll over his shoulder.

John looked around the room and walked to the armchair, tipping it up, the debris covering it sliding off. "Here, on her side."

"Sammy, get a blanket from upstairs," he said quietly, watching the boy run up.

He walked away from the chair, looking down at the blood pool and stripped bone remnants that lay behind the couch. They hadn't stood a chance, had probably never even known that they had been targeted. He would get the witch responsible for this, he promised them silently. He would end her life as she'd ended theirs.

Sam came down the stairs with thick quilt tucked under his arm, his face white. John looked at him, and nodded slightly, thinking of what the rooms up there had looked like.

"Give it to me," he told him gently. Sam held it out and he took the quilt from him, opening it and spreading it over the child in the chair, tucking it gently around her legs and under her shoulder. The chair faced the door. The police would see her as soon as they pulled up.

"All right, let's go." He looked around the destroyed rooms. "We've got to finish this thing before it can kill anyone else."

"Shouldn't we wait for the ambulance?" Dean's face held shock as he looked down at the girl, his brows drawing together. "What if it comes back before they get here?"

"It won't," John told him certainly. "But if we're here when the police get here, we're going to be questioned and detained and we'll lose the trail."

He looked carefully at Dean, then Sam. He could see the disapproval clearly in the younger boy's face, and there was doubt in Dean's expression. A part of him was relieved by their concern for the child, another part impatient at the difference in their priorities. As hunters, they would have to learn to focus on stopping the monster, not on the victims it'd left behind.

"This thing is only just getting started. We can't risk losing it now, or there'll be more families like this one." He glanced at the girl. "She'll be alright. It won't return here."

He turned and walked out onto the porch, down the steps. Opening the trunk he put the shotgun back inside, taking the two from the boys and closing it again. Distantly he could already hear the sirens.

"Come on, we've got to get out of here."

* * *

It was after two in the morning when they pulled back into Missoula. They'd been able to follow the elemental's trail for awhile, seeing the broken and splintered trees along its track, and through the EMF which had registered the increased levels of electro-magnetic fields along it. But it had gone straight across country and they'd lost it around midnight.

The boys dropped straight into their beds when they got back to the house, the hours of driving, the tension of the night, the nightmare memories of the cabin and the girl wiping both of them out.

John sat down at the table, and plotted the track from the cabin as far as they'd gone. It had no reason to deviate, no reason to think of pursuit and the line he drew was straight. He looked along it, making notes of the towns that it ran through. There were only three on the line, none along the interstate between Spokane and Montana. Thompson Falls was the first. They could be there in two hours from Missoula, and they would follow up in the morning, he thought, glancing at his watch and realising that it _was_ the morning. He'd looked briefly at the letter he'd found at the cabin, it was from the researcher, a pleasantly written letter wishing the family well that still came across to him as vaguely threatening. Unfortunately there was no return address and no envelope to check a postmark against.

He finished the last mouthful of whiskey in his glass and stood. The memory of the girl rose like a spectre in his mind and he shook slightly, finally allowing his reactions to come out, here, where it didn't matter. He'd felt as if he was torturing her, as he'd cleaned the wounds, and the feeling sickened and disgusted him. He looked down at the bottle for a long moment, aware that he wanted the amnesia it could bring, taking away the sense memories of the child's shudders that he could still feel in his hands. It wasn't an answer, he knew. He turned away, walking to the bedroom.

* * *

Dean woke in discomfort, his arm twisted under his body, his head turned to one side. He rolled over, careful to move slowly, and felt something hard in his jean pocket, digging into his hip. Reaching into it, he pulled out the locket, turning it over his hands as he looked at it. He'd forgotten about it last night, in the rush to get out of the house and onto the trail of the elemental.

He held the chain up close to his face and saw where the link had broken. It wouldn't take much to fix it. His fingers found the slight indentation along the rim and he pressed it with the edge of his nail, the two halves springing open. Two photographs were inside, on the right, pleasant-featured man whose photograph he'd seen here first, in his father's file; and on the left a woman's portrait, showing long copper-red hair, wide green eyes, an oval face. Her skin was smooth and the creamy white of a certain kind of redhead, her mouth full, lips a delicate tinted rose. The girl's parents, he guessed. He closed it again carefully, not wanting to think about them, not wanting to think of the girl's life as it would be now, without them. On the back of the locket a short inscription had been engraved. He looked at it, recognising that it was Latin, but that fact not helping much since he knew as much Latin as he did French, which was to say, none at all.

_Finis vitae sed non Amoris_

He glanced over at Sam's bed, seeing his brother face down on the covers, still out. The fine tools were in a box under his bed, and he pulled it out quietly, opening the lid and looking for the jeweller's soldiering iron he'd bought the year before. He laid the chain out and pressed against a link with his nail, the link bending under the pressure. A soft metal. It was a silvery colour, but he hoped it wasn't silver. The melting point was very high and the soldiering iron wouldn't cut it.

He plugged the iron into the nearest socket and waited for it to heat, holding the chain with a small pair of pliers. The broken link melted easily and he rejoined it neatly. Laying it out on the nightstand, he put everything away as his father knocked on the door.

"Sam awake?" John looked into the room. "Wake him up, we're going in ten."

* * *

Thompson Falls was a small town on the outlet of a long, narrow lake, pressed close under the mountains. They drove along the main street slowly, and John parked next to the library, getting out of the car and going inside. He came out with a plan of the county, and turned left, walking down the block to the real estate agency.

Dean yawned as he and Sam waited in the car. The morning was surprisingly warm, the sun beating in through the windows, heating the car steadily. He closed his eyes and let himself drift into a doze.

Sam looked around, his mind chaotic, a mix of dread and excitement fizzing through his nerves. Memories of last night kept returning to him, the destruction of the house, where it seemed nothing larger than a splinter had been left, the deep red of the flesh exposed by claw marks on the girl's back, her agony as the brandy had bitten deep, the unimagined gentleness he'd seen in his brother as he'd lifted her and carried her to the chair, his own fear as they'd walked away, leaving her there, exposed, injured … he'd felt a moment of hatred for his father then, for the callous way he'd put the hunt before the victim. He had the feeling that Dean might have felt the same way, although in that moment, he'd warned Sam tacitly not to make an issue of it.

John walked out of the agency and got into the car. "Only one place fits. New owner, a lot of renovations, building work, remote, on the other side of the river." He started the car and pulled out, driving down the street and turning left to the bridge.

Sam looked down at the lazily winding river as they crossed it, a main bridge over the river and a secondary, smaller bridge over a closed loop that had become a pond. The road twisted as they started to climb the ridge on the other side, and he felt his heart begin to beat faster.

The gravel road was even steeper, leading up through a scraggly mixed wood to what looked like a sheer rock wall. It was only as they pulled around at the front that the house became clear, hidden by the morning shadow cast under the wall. Sam stared. It was an ugly house, built mostly into the vertical rockface, big blocks of stone forming the outside walls that were high and held no windows, just slits. Crenellations dressed the top of the building like a castle front, but the rest looked more like a prison.

"Stay in here, Sam." John turned and looked at him. "You are not to leave the car."

Sam nodded readily. The house scared him. "Yessir."

"Dean, get the Taurus from the glovebox. Put it in your jacket pocket."

John got out of the car and looked around, apparently admiring the view down the ravine to the north of the house. He waited until Dean was ready and out, and they walked slowly the front door. It was impressive, thick and heavy, aged oak bound with iron, the door said _go away_ even more effectively than the building did. He found the door bell, a discreet grey button to one side of the frame and pressed it.

The woman who opened the door matched the photo he had of the researcher. Tall, thin, her hair had been dyed till the life had gone from it, and it hung in dead black straggles and snarls, framing a skeletal face and falling over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were big, grey and heavily outlined in dark eyeliner. She looked at the man and boy standing on her doorstep with little interest.

"Yes?"

"Ms Falconer?" John smiled at her, the expression filled with as much sincerity as he could muster. "Ms Irena Falconer?"

"Yes." She looked at him, waiting. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, showing a press badge for a home magazine.

"I'm Charles Watts. From Design Homes." He looked past her into the room beyond. "We heard about your house and wondered if we could interview you for the magazine, it's certainly a fascinating design."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she listened to him. "Now isn't a good time, Mr Watts. Perhaps you could phone for an appointment later this week."

"Ah … well, I would, Ms Falconer, but we're only in town today, heading out tomorrow for a mansion in Colorado that was built above the snow line. I would surely appreciate it if you could spare a few minutes. We don't take photos of the homes, of course, but your thoughts would be invaluable."

She hesitated for a moment, staring at them, then shrugged. "Just a few minutes. Come in."

Sam watched his father and brother walk into the house with a worried feeling. She had looked like a witch, that woman, and even at this distance, she'd felt like one.

Dean followed John into the hall, staring around openly. It was like the great hall in a castle, he thought, but there was no furniture, just the huge fireplace at one end and few tapestries and hangings on the walls.

Irena Falconer walked to the left, going into a large living room, the over-sized furniture looking quite normal against the massive proportions of the room. She gestured to the couch and sat in an armchair, her thin frame dwarfed by its size. John sat on the couch, and pulled out his notebook. Dean walked slowly around the room, pretending to look at the books on the shelving that covered two walls.

"I hope you don't mind, had to bring my son with me, he won't touch anything." John looked across at the boy with a warning glance. Dean nodded and kept walking, gradually moving around behind the woman.

"Now, when did you first move in here?"

"A few weeks ago. The building work took two years." She sat very still, only her eyes moving as she watched him.

"And what made you move up here from … sorry, where did you move from?" John looked up, pen poised over the notebook.

"Missoula." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I moved here for the peace and quiet."

"It is lovely up here," John said, but his next words were forgotten, as she started to smile. Behind him, he could hear something, a soft roaring.

He dropped the notebook and pen and dove to the floor, rolling fast between the couch and table, as the elemental entered the room. It wasn't an elemental of air this time, the soft roaring was the sound of fire.

Irena leapt out of the chair and ran to the door on the opposite side of the room. John looked up as Dean followed her, jumping over the chair, both disappearing through into the next room. He scrambled to his feet, and fired two bullets into the elemental, shattering it. It gathered itself together again and followed him as he raced for the door, the smell of burning getting stronger as it touched more and more objects in the room.

Irena stopped dead in the centre of the next room and Dean, too close behind, ran into her, knocking her down and tripping over the top of her with his momentum. She screamed at him, and he felt her nails scrape down his arm, a stickiness telling him she'd drawn blood with the scratch.

He had the Taurus half out of his pocket when she got to her feet, turning to him and closing her eyes. For a heartbeat, they remained frozen in place, then she opened her eyes and began to speak, her voice low and rhythmical, repeating the same phrase over and over again. Dean felt a prickling heat in his hands and legs, racing up his arms, over his stomach and chest and shoulders. He could smell a strange scent on the air, metallic and sharp, like an overcooked battery. The heat was increasing as it moved over him, he could smell the sweetish scent of cooking meat, the acrid scent of burning hair. Just a spell, he told himself, yanking the gun clear of his coat. He caught sight of his hand, where the skin seemed to be melting off him and shuddered, forcing his eyes up, forcing them to focus along the barrel to the sight, forcing himself to ignore the screaming agony as his muscles contracted with the heat and the fire in them burned deeper, down toward the bone. Not real, just a spell, not fucking well real! He pulled the trigger as his blood began to boil in his veins –

The heat vanished as the witch fell to the floor, the black hole in her forehead neat and round.

For a long moment, Dean lay on the floor, sucking in breath after breath as reaction shook through him. He rolled to his feet, looking at his hands. They looked normal, despite the memories he had of seeing them melting, feeling them blistering and cooking. He belatedly remembered the elemental in the living room, and ran back to the door, looking for his father, the scent of ash and smoke in the air.

* * *

John lay awkwardly across the doorway to the hall, his clothing singed, one large blackened piece over his right shoulder. Dropping to his knees beside him, Dean shoved the gun back into his pocket and gingerly put his arm around his father's shoulders.

He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, the smile turning to a grimace as he twisted away from the pain in his shoulder. Dean eased him up, then lifted aside the blackened side of the jacket. Underneath the shirt had burned as well, and beneath that, the skin was blistered and shiny, a deep red at the front, but swelling and darkening at the back of the arm. He flinched at the sight, his eyes wide as he looked into his father's grey-tinged face.

"It's alright. Elemental caught me and shoved me against the doorframe, burned a bit, and bruised, I think." John turned his head awkwardly to look at the shoulder while trying not to move it. "Help me up. And get Sammy, we need to search this place."

Crouching down beside him, Dean lifted his father's left arm over his shoulders, straightening up slowly. John felt his legs shaking slightly as they took his weight, and he leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply until the pain and shock receded, feeling the run of sweat on his face from the effort of remaining upright.

"You alright?" Dean looked at him doubtfully. John nodded, his breath coming a little easier. His son turned and ran for the car, coming back inside with Sam a few minutes later. Sam stared at his father.

"It's okay, Sammy. Just a bit of bruising. I'll be fine." John turned his head to look around the room. "You need to search this place, top to bottom. Look everywhere," he said. "There'll be a circle somewhere in here, you'll know it when you see it. You need to cut it, break it."

Nodding and grabbing his brother's arm, Dean turned away, heading for the other side of the house. John waited until they'd gone then walked slowly to the couch, holding onto the back of it and moving slowly around it. He sat down on the edge, looking around the room. It was a front, he could see that. An ordinary room in an extraordinary house. He'd have to come back here, sometime before the estate was settled and the place sold, and see what he could scavenge from it.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the boys came back to the living room. They'd looked in every room, cupboard, closet and cabinet in the place and hadn't been able to find a circle, or anything that looked like a witch's workroom. John lay back on the couch, his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Dean walked over to him, and woke him gently, helping him to sit up.

"We can't find anything. No circles, no altars, nothing."

John frowned. His thoughts were hazy and vague, the throb in his shoulder and the side of his head fracturing them as he tried to concentrate. "No," he said, his hand closing around his son's wrist. "No, there's got to be one here. She couldn't have powered the elemental so far away without one."

He tried to clear his head, but moving had set off the pain from the burns again, he could feel the trickle of liquid through his clothing, the acid bite of exposed nerves rasping against the scorched fabric. "You better get me to a doctor, Dean. This is starting to hurt like a sonofabitch."

Sam looked at his brother worriedly. He'd never even heard his father complain about pain before. He'd hardly ever seen his father in pain before, at least not physical.

Dean pulled his father's arm over his shoulders again, lifting him to his feet. John staggered beside him, his vision blurring and the strength in his body coming and going as the shoulder burned fiercely.

"Get the door open, Sam," Dean said breathlessly as they made it down the low broad steps. Sam ran to the car, opening the passenger door.

"No, the back door," Dean barked at his brother, scowling as he felt his father sag beside him. "C'mon, Dad, stay awake, just a couple of minutes longer."

_I don't want to drop you here_, he thought desperately, his fingers tightening as John seemed to slip further from his grasp. He got his father around the open door and leaned forward, lowering him onto the back seat carefully. Going around the other side, he managed to pull him all the way in, trying not to touch the injured shoulder, trying to shut out the knowledge that his father was unconscious. He shut both doors, wiping the sweat from his face as he leaned against the side of the car, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Sam got into the passenger side and Dean opened the driver's door, sliding onto the seat and starting the engine, his palms sliding on the wheel. He wiped them on his jeans one at a time, chewing on his bottom lip as he drove carefully down the canyon. He couldn't get the image of his father, face drawn with the pain, his skin grey under his tan, beaded with sweat, out of his head.

"He'll be okay, right?" Sam asked as they left the gravel and Dean put his foot down as they turned onto the asphalt highway leading back to town.

"Yeah," he said, forcing the note of reassurance into his voice. "Yeah, Sammy, he'll be fine."

* * *

It was a week later when he saw the locket sitting on the nightstand. He hadn't even thought of the damned thing after they'd found the psychic.

His father was out of the hospital, his shoulder bandaged and in a sling, trying to do his research in the living room with one hand. The doctors had cleaned the burns, packing them with a saline gel and deciding against grafts. Dean had the feeling the staff had been glad to see the back of the injured man when they'd picked him up, a feeling confirmed by his father's bad-tempered response to being out of action as he and Sam tried to take care of him, running errands and handling the chores.

He picked the locket up, checking that the repaired link in the chain was strong, and slipped it into his pocket. It was unfinished business, he thought, walking out of the bedroom and along the hall to the living room.

"Dad, can I take the car for the day?"

John looked up, eyebrows shooting up. "What for?"

"I want to go back to Spokane. Check with the hospital, see if that girl was alright," he blurted out, although he'd had a better story all worked out. He could lie to strangers without the slightest trouble, but the truth just leapt out of his mouth when it came to his family. John looked at him thoughtfully.

"You were worried about her." It wasn't a question, precisely. He nodded. He couldn't quite bring himself to talk about the locket, he wasn't sure if he should've taken it at all.

"Yeah, okay," John agreed, glancing back down at the file. "Make sure you're back by tomorrow morning."

"I will," he promised, hardly able to believe that his father had agreed so readily. Grabbing his jacket, he hurried outside in case his father changed his mind. The car started perfectly, as always, and the small smile curved his lips at the feeling it brought him, especially when he was driving it alone. He put a tape in the deck and turned up the volume, reversing out of the driveway and onto the street, pulling away sweetly.

He worked his way out of the city, and breathed a long sigh of relief as he hit the interstate. He thought about the way his father had changed, over the past week, going from impatient and irritable, to relaxed and indulgent despite the pain that the shoulder was obviously still giving him. He didn't understand his father's moods, not really. Not well enough to be able to understand where they came from or how to predict them.

He didn't understand a lot of what his father did, he realised slowly, his eyes on the road ahead, hands light on the wheel. Leaving the girl alone in the cabin had been another thing he hadn't understood. He knew she hadn't been in that much danger, they'd been able to hear the police and ambulance coming up the road as they'd left, but still, it felt … wrong somehow, to have just left her there, not knowing for sure that she would be alright.

All his remembered life, he'd wanted to be like his father. Exactly like him. A soldier. A hunter. Strong. Brave. Committed to the eradication of evil. It troubled him now to feel a doubt about that, not much of one, but still there. He wondered if the weakness was in himself, if he needed to be stronger, clearer on the priorities of a situation like that. Strategically, tactically, he knew his father had been right. But inside, it'd felt like the wrong choice.

* * *

He pulled into the hospital's lot, parking the car and getting out. The reception desk was just inside the front doors, and he cleared his throat as he looked at the middle-aged nurse manning it.

"Uh … I'm looking for a girl who was brought in a week ago, about ten years old, parents deceased?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "Family?"

He shook his head. "Just a concerned neighbour, the family had only moved in recently and we heard that the parents had been … murdered," he said, lowering his voice.

The nurse nodded, her face clearing. "Media were all over us for a few days, wouldn't leave the thing alone," she said, by way of explanation. "She was here for three days. Then they found some family from the East somewhere and she was flown out on Sunday."

"Do you know where?" He felt his heart sink as he realised he might not find her again.

"Boston, I think." She looked down at the files on her desk. "I don't think we kept a record of it, because all the files had to go with her."

"Was she okay?"

The nurse's expression fell as she drew in a deep breath. "I don't think she'll ever be okay, honey. Her parents were cremated, what was left, while she was still here," she told him. "But she was alright physically. The wounds had been cleaned and dressed before she got here, which was a help with preventing infection."

He nodded. "Thank you."

He turned away and walked out of the hospital, back to the lot where the Impala was waiting for him. He was disappointed, he'd wanted to see for himself that she'd made it. But she was okay. She had family who would look after her, he thought, his fingers curled around the locket in his pocket. That was the main thing. She would live. Because of his father, because they were hunters.

The thought lifted him somehow, gave him a sense of purpose that seemed important. Saving people, protecting them … it was the touchstone of his life, drilled into him every single day. He couldn't imagine trying to live differently now, couldn't imagine not being on the front line.

* * *

Pulling into the driveway of the rental just after dark, Dean got out, locking the car and walking into the house. His father and brother were sitting on the couch eating dinner, watching something on the television set.

"Was she alright?" John asked, looking up at him as he walked in and hesitated in the doorway.

"Transferred to another hospital, they found some family," Dean said, shrugging slightly. "The hospital said that she was okay physically."

John looked at the slump in his son's shoulders, the tiredness around his eyes. "Probably the best we could hope for."

Dean nodded, turning away and walking to the bedroom. When he'd turned the key to shut off the car's engine, he'd felt a load drop onto him, tiredness and a sense of futility at what he'd tried to do. He wasn't sure why his feelings had turned around, somewhere on the drive back to his family, why he couldn't feel the sense of purpose he'd felt in Spokane.

He turned on the light and pulled his duffle from beneath the bed, lifting it and unzipping the long canvas bag. Under the clothes and tapes and magazines and notebooks, his fingers found the smooth leather pouch. He kept things in it, not many, things that had some meaning to him, that were important. He pulled it out and opened it, touching his mother's charm bracelet gently with his fingertip. He slipped the locket inside with the other things and closed the pouch, dropping it back into the bag, sitting on the bed beside it.

Monsters were bad, he thought wearily, ghosts weren't great either. But people were the worst. They killed for the most trivial of reasons, without regret or remorse, purely to satisfy some passing desire.

He lay back on the bed, pushing the bag to the floor and rolling onto his side. In his imagination, always too vivid, he saw the little girl waking up to be told that her family was dead. It happened every day, he knew. It didn't change the fact that in this girl's case, like his own, there would be no easy explanation for what had turned her life inside out. No way to shut out the memories that would come in her nightmares. He hoped she would forget, hoped that her family in Boston would help her bury it all.

* * *

_There are wounds that never show on the body,_

_that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds._

_~ Laurell K. Hamilton_


	16. Chapter 16 Home Run

**Chapter 16 Home Run**

* * *

_People will forget what you said; people will forget what you do,_

_but people will never forget how you made them feel._

_~ Jason Barger_

* * *

_**October 1995. Campbellsville, Kentucky**_

John pulled into the gas station on the outskirts of Campbellsville and eased the car into position next to the pump. He got out slowly, feeling the five hundred miles they'd just driven in stiff muscles and joints as he walked around to the rear, opening the fuel cap and reaching for the the nozzle. The gas flowed steadily into the tank, gurgling every now and then and he leaned against the trunk.

Behind him, Dean and Sam slowly got out of the car as well, stretching and looking around.

"Scott, you are the biggest dumbass I've ever seen, there's no way we can be related by blood."

Dean turned and leaned against the passenger door, looking into the open bay of the mechanic's shop that lay adjacent to the store. The girl who'd spoken was standing next to a Nissan parked there, staring at the boy next to the workbench. Both wore grey coveralls, covered in patches and logos, the girl's pale blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"No one asked for your opinion, Tash." The guy pushed a greasy hand through the long fair hair that fell over his forehead, shaking his head. "She's going to look awesome."

The girl shook her head in disbelief. "Paint jobs, even thousand-dollar paint jobs do not increase engine performance, you dick." She turned and walked to the open engine. "This is a piece of shit engine, and it doesn't matter how pretty the car looks, you're never going to get more than one sixty out of it."

Dean felt his brows rising. He wandered across the asphalt to the corner of the store, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway to the shop and looking in. The girl was staring down at the engine, her lip curled in disgust. He could see her profile, smudged with grease, but not much more.

"Dean."

He turned away reluctantly, looking at his father. "Yessir?"

"You want anything?" John gestured to the store. Dean shook his head, and turned back to the workshop again. The girl had gone, the guy was leaning into the engine bay, muttering under his breath.

With a shrug, he straightened and walked back to the car, getting in and waiting for his father and brother. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

The motel room stank of gun oil and solvent, the smell ignored by the occupants. Dean looked down at the pieces of the shotgun in his hands as his father paced up and down the short length of the room, reading from the file he held. Sam leaned on the kitchen counter, pushing a brush down the barrel of the Beretta.

"The legend is pretty well known. Nancy Bass and two children are recorded in the 1850 census as living in Spurlington. Not well liked, she was called a witch by the local population who apparently threatened to hang her or burn her pretty regularly. She told them that she could only be killed by a silver bullet or a silver nail to her heart."

"You're kidding." Dean looked up at his father from the edge of the bed, the half-assembled shotgun in his hands dropping to his lap.

"Nope, plenty of anecdotal evidence to support that," John said, his gaze returning to the notes. "In 1868 apparently someone made good on that, and she dropped dead in the house of Ely Wright, claiming that someone had driven such a nail into her heart."

Sam's nose wrinkled up in disbelief. "She was a witch but she stood around and let someone do that?"

"Could have been a silver bullet, actually." John skimmed the page. "The coroner reports finding a silver bullet in the body at the autopsy."

"Awesome." Dean finished assembling the gun and put it on the bed beside him, picking up the Remington. "So was she a witch or a monster?"

"No idea." John dropped into a chair at the table, shuffling through the mix of Xeroxed pages and notes in the open file. "The good citizens of Spurlington didn't want her buried in the cemetery and the tunnel was being hacked out of the mountain at the time, so she was handed off to the crew working there and buried somewhere up top, according to the local accounts."

Closing the file, he looked at his sons. "We've got a lot of ghost sightings, but no problems with the site until two months ago."

"No one who saw the ghost was hurt or killed?" Sam frowned.

"No. From 1868 to earlier this year there's nothing." John picked up the police and coroner's reports. "Two months ago, two hikers were found on the side of the mountain, dead. Both bodies were torn up and the initial police report stated wild animal attack." He flipped the page over. "The coroner's report initially supported that, but was modified a week later after the autopsy. The coroner didn't believe it was the work of an animal, there were no bite marks, and the gashes in the victims were too regular and even to be the work of claws."

"So? Maybe the killer is human," Dean suggested, lifting the shotgun to look down the barrel, holding obliquely to the light.

John exhaled softly. "That was my first thought. Then I read this." He pulled out a thin sheaf of papers from the file, tossing it to his son.

Dean put down the barrel and picked it up, his gaze skimming over the preliminary findings. John's mouth twisted into a half-smile as he watched his son's concentration suddenly narrow and focus as he hit the detailed findings. After a moment, Dean looked up at him, brows drawn together.

"The organs were removed without any incisions?"

His father nodded. "There are a few ways of getting organs out without making an incision in the abdomen, of course. The Egyptians pulled them out through the nose, for example."

"Eating here." Sam put his sandwich down regretfully. "You can also take them out the other end without leaving a mark if you know what you're doing."

"Right. And there were a lot of superficial cuts on the bodies as well." He took back the report and slid it into the folder. "But usually, there'll be some tells left in the body to show what's happened. The coroner is adamant that in these two cases there aren't. The organs were not cut free of the abdominal cavity, they were just gone. All of them."

"Alright. So probably not human," Dean revised his opinion with a shrug, his attention returning to the Remington. "Not really a ghost's MO either."

"Not really," John agreed. "We'll need to do a lot of digging around on this one."

Dean's head snapped up hopefully. "Does that mean I can skip school for this case?"

"No. It doesn't." John looked at him. "The elementary school is three blocks from here. The high school's three the other way. You're both going."

Sam watched his brother's shoulders slump, and hid a grin.

* * *

Walking across the asphalt parking lot at the side of the school the next morning, Dean stared at the ground as the chilly wind blew the leaves around him and across the flat expanse. _Another school_, he thought morosely. _And for what? He wasn't learning anything useful, anything that related to what he was actually going to do with his life. Did his father really think it would make a difference to the monsters and ghosts and things that crept around in the dark if he could conjugate a fucking French verb?_

The sharp automotive beep made him jump back, gaze snapping up as he saw the car in front of him. '68 Plymouth GTX, his brain noted automatically, every panel straight and all of them painted in a different coloured primer coat. The deep, sweet sound of the engine suggested that the engine was more important to this driver than the looks. He took a couple more steps back and the car rolled slowly past him, its rumble echoing from the brick walls of the school building. The early light reflected off the windows, hiding the driver from view, showing him only the bare branches and buildings behind him mirrored in the glass.

He watched as the car swung wide, and the driver slotted the car neatly into a parking spot for the seniors, nose in to the building's side. The engine stopped and the door opened, a slim blonde getting out, a heavy-looking black backpack in one hand that she heaved onto her shoulder as she closed and locked the door behind her. She walked past the car and turned away from him, giving him a view of long legs in old and torn jeans, chunky black motorcycle boots, the back of a brown leather bomber's jacket, old and cracked and too big for her slender frame, and a fall of pale blonde hair swinging over her back.

He was torn between watching her progress toward the corner of the building, and staring at the car. From what he'd seen of both girl and car, they definitely fit into his idea of things to spend time on that were more useful than school. The girl disappeared and the bell went as he was still debating the pros and cons of catching up to her. Scowling he gave up on the idea and turned back for the main entrance, all the frustrations of having to spend another two years doing this returning to him in force.

* * *

The home room was arranged alphabetically, and Dean nodded in anticipation as the teacher ran down the list of names and gestured to the back of the classroom.

"Winchester. Third desk from the end."

Despite the relatively small population of the town, there were a lot of kids in the high school, more than thirty in this class alone, and he walked past them, heading for the back, keeping his gaze fixed on the back wall. Some schools he made an effort to make friends, some he didn't bother. Catching bits and pieces of the conversations as he walked past, he had a feeling that this would be one of the not-bothering ones. He sat down at the designated desk and listened absently to the chatter around him, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk in front of him, his brain already turning off.

"Natasha, you're at the left at the back."

"Ooh, look if it isn't the grease monkey."

"Who the hell is AC/DC?"

"I think that means she swings both ways."

Dean looked up. The blonde from the parking lot came up the aisle toward him, ignoring most of the comments that were following her.

"Hey Tash, you do know that bleaching your hair makes it fall out?"

She turned her head and looked at the girl. "Well, you ought to know, Cheryl."

He watched the other girl's malicious expression disappear as her hand reached up unconsciously to touch her hair, and snorted softly. As the blonde – Tash, he thought, remembering the name from the gas station - turned back to him, he straightened in his chair, looking at her. Her face was smooth and expressionless, wide-set blue eyes, high cheekbones, lips full and plump, now slightly compressed as her gaze swept over him and past to the desk to his right. The old jeans were snug but not tight, the close-fitting black t-shirt under the leather jacket held a single silver logo on it … the gothic capitals separated by a lightning bolt.

She walked past him and turned along the back wall, taking not the desk beside him, but the one beyond that, near the wall. The black backpack hit the floor with a heavy thud, and she sat down in the chair, pushing her hair back from her face impatiently.

Another guy walked up and took the desk between them, and Dean leaned back a little as his view was blocked.

"Alright, enough." The teacher stood up and looked around the classroom. "Let's just get roll call out of the way, then we'll be picking up where we left off on Friday. We've got a new student today, can everyone make Dean Winchester feel at home while he's with us?"

Dean's attention whipped back to the front as he felt the eyes of the class zero in on him. He lifted his hand slightly in acknowledgement, and kept his eyes on the teacher.

"Dean, I'm Mrs Farley. Let me assure you that most of the students at Taylor County High are much better mannered than the ones in this class." She picked up the roll and started to call out names.

The class turned away, mutters and grumbling filling the room, the usual discontented chatter that seemed to be the standard across the country, punctuated by the responses of those whose names were called.

"Winchester."

"Here."

"Wiley?"

"Here." The guy next to him raised his hand and slumped back in his chair.

"Wilkinson?"

"Here," Tash's voice was husky but powerful; she didn't need to raise it to be heard. He looked past Wiley to her, belatedly recognising the profile, minus the smear of grease that'd been there the first time he'd seen it. He turned away as she felt the gaze and lifted her head to look at him.

"Poets of the Eighteenth Century, page four hundred and fifteen. Open, now." Mrs Farley put the roll down and started to write on the board. "We'll be looking at William Blake today."

* * *

By lunch time, he had a pile of books, one for each subject, to carry around with him, and still no locker. He stopped at the Administration office for the third time, and let out a small sigh of relief when the secretary recognised him and held out a key, waving at him.

The locker was on the other side of the building, of course, and most of the break was gone by the time he found the cafeteria. Most of the food too. He looked at the salad sandwiches and slices of quiche, nose wrinkling up with distaste, and turned away.

Most of the tables were empty, the students finished eating and gone to do other things, he decided as he looked around. In the corner, against the windows that overlooked the car park, he saw a familiar blonde head, bent over an open book. He looked at her for a moment, arguing with himself over going over there and getting acquainted with her. She wasn't really pretty, not in the snub-nosed-pouting-lips way he was used to thinking of girls, but she was arresting, the light blonde hair a foil for the vividly blue eyes and wide mouth, and he told himself he was just curious about a girl whose taste in cars and music so closely matched his own.

She had a pile of books beside her, and was writing notes into a binder as he approached, as oblivious to the outside world as his little brother was when he was studying, he thought bemusedly. Tilting his head slightly, he read the titles of the books. History.

_Huh_.

She looked up at him abruptly as he stopped beside the table. "Help you with something?"

The sharp question made him wonder if this was such a good idea.

"Uh … no. I was just wondering …" He looked down at her t-shirt. "Which was your favourite album? It's Natasha, right?"

"Tash, yeah." Her eyes were narrowed slightly. "Tell me yours first."

"Dirty Deeds," he said, smiling slightly as he sat in the chair on the other side of the table, knowing it was a test. "Done Dirt Cheap."

"Highway to Hell," she told him, her tone indicating that she hadn't thought he'd know of the older albums. Her fingers ruffled the pages of the book she was reading, somewhat impatiently. "But Back in Black is right behind it."

"Bon or Brian?"

The question brought a reluctant smile. "Bon," she said. "Brian's okay but he doesn't have the same sense of humour."

He nodded, his gaze on her face. The smile changed the way she looked completely, he thought as he watched it fade away.

"What are you doing?" He looked down at her notes, his normal ability to read things upside down defeated by her handwriting.

"Studying. What's it look like?"

"You don't seem the …" He stopped mid-sentence, seeing her expression change, abruptly aware of how that could sound.

"The type?" she finished his thought, her mouth compressing as she stared at him. Remembering the catcalls of the class earlier, he realised that he couldn't have come out with anything worse.

"Because I listen to rock? Or work in a garage? Or don't have a preppy little tweed set in my wardrobe?"

"Uh …" he floundered, staring at her helplessly, mouth open, absolutely nothing to say. And she was getting madder.

"You got here _today_," she reminded him tautly. "What makes you the authority on me or my 'type'?" She slammed her book shut, and started shoving her notes into her bag. "What makes you think you can reduce me to a 'type' anyway?"

"Um…"

The backpack was bulging, the seams straining and she stood up, leaning on one hand across the table, furious blue eyes staring into his. "You're an asshole."

He blinked as she straightened, turned and walked fast out of the room.

_What the fuck?_

* * *

Five hours later, he replayed the conversation in his head, half-sprawled on the room's couch, his gaze fixed on the wall next to the television, the files he was holding forgotten. It probably hadn't been the smartest thing to say, he thought. He hadn't been thinking–

"Dean."

He looked up at his father, shaking the memory of a pair of angry blue eyes from his thoughts.

"What did you find out at the library?" John frowned at him, recognising that his son wasn't concentrating on anything he'd just said.

"Not much more than we already knew." Dean leaned forward on the couch and put the file on the low table in front of him, opening it. "Both of the Bass children moved out west, one went to California, the other to Arizona. So they don't have anything to do with this."

He picked up another notebook, flipping through the pages of his block printing until he got to the bit about Nancy. "Despite her claims, Nancy wasn't a monster, just an ordinary woman, according to her autopsy." He looked up at his father. "I got nothing on the organ removal thing."

"No. I'll have to go to Lexington to get access to better research for that. I'll head up tomorrow, be back on Friday."

Dean glanced at Sam who shrugged. A few days on their own would be okay. He watched his father settle down at the table, going over the notes again, and leaned back against the couch. The more complicated the case got, the longer they would be staying. He wasn't sure if he wanted that or not.

_What makes you the authority on me or my 'type'?_

He shook his head. He'd been pigeonholed plenty of times himself at schools and in the small towns they spent most of their time in … the most recent could've jump-started a petty criminal career. Two months someplace harder would've changed a lot of things.

That'd been nearly six months ago. He still hadn't written. Pushing the thoughts aside, he stared at the file on the table, trying to force himself to concentrate on the case. He'd made his decision and there was no going back.

* * *

Frost sparkled over everything in the early morning light as he walked down the street to the school. He heard the car as it pulled up alongside him, and stopped, looking at the driver coolly, her words still reverberating in his head.

Tash turned off the engine, opening her window fully and slid out, sitting on the window frame and looking at him across the GTX's roof. "I'm sorry about what I said to you yesterday."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah?"

She sighed. "I get a lot of flack from kids at school, and I overreacted, didn't give you a chance to explain. Just wanted to say I'm sorry for that."

"Uh huh." He wasn't sure what to think about that. "That shoot first; ask questions later approach work well for you?"

Her mouth twisted up, half rueful smile, half grimace. "Not really. Can't seem to shake it though."

She glanced up the street, lifting a shoulder slightly. "You want a ride? It's not that far."

Dean looked down at the car, trapped between wanting the ride and wanting to remain at arm's length from her. He really wasn't into chicks who were so volatile. But the car, on the other hand, the car was probably worth the trouble.

"Yeah. Thanks." He stepped off the sidewalk and pulled open the passenger door as she slid back inside and started the engine again. The sound was good, and he could feel it through his feet.

"This is a great car."

She glanced at him suspiciously for a moment, that not being the usual comment she got on her ride, then relaxed as she took in his expression, a small smile and bright green eyes filled with admiration.

"My Dad gave it to me last year. We spent a lot of time working on the engine."

"You did a good job, she sounds beautiful." He looked at her, and she could see the utter sincerity of the compliment in his face.

Smiling, she said, "Thanks. You must know a bit about cars."

"You got the 440 in there or the 426?" He closed his eyes, listening intently as he tried to decide which it was by sound.

"The 426." She checked her mirrors and pulled out, glancing at her watch. "We had to replace the original engine and there was no point not getting it, you know."

"I know." He opened his eyes and looked across at her. "We've got a '67 Impala."

"Nice." She smiled at him. "We should take them for a spin one day."

He smiled weakly, swallowing at the thought of his father's reaction to him racing the car on the street. "Yeah, maybe."

Today the black t-shirt she wore just had the roman numerals for three across the front. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

* * *

He found her at lunch time, sitting at the same table in the corner of the cafeteria, a stack of books beside her. He walked over and sat down opposite her.

"So what's the deal with the studying?"

She looked up at him as she finished the sentence she was writing. "I want to go to college."

He tried to hide his surprise, seeing his failure at the wary expression in her eyes. "That's great, really. Just not my thing, you know?"

Tash shrugged, her expression resigned. "In my family, it's nobody's thing." She closed the book beside her and began to pack the pile away again. Dean bit the inside of his lip as he watched her. He was revising his opinion slowly. He had the feeling that she'd had enough trouble being too different from the rest of the kids in the area to regard offence as the best defence for a long time. He'd had the same problem himself. And he wanted a better look at the Hemi in her GTX.

"Do you want to … uh, do something after school?"

She looked up at him, zipping the pack closed, her expression unreadable. "Like what?"

"I don't know. We just moved here." He looked down, uncomfortable again. "I wouldn't mind looking at the engine in the GTX?"

She laughed softly and he was sure he could hear a slight hint of relief in it. "Oh, sure. We could go for a drive, maybe out to the old tunnel?"

"I … uh … that'd be great, but I have to stop at home first, check on my kid brother."

"Alright. Do you want a ride home?" The offer was casual, polite. He realised that he wasn't really making his usual impression on this girl.

He nodded, belatedly wondering if it was a good idea to leave Sam alone at the motel while he went joyriding. He couldn't think of a specific problem with it. Nothing was happening in the town. And he'd be back early.

"Yeah."

The bell rang and they both looked up. Tash got to her feet, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"I'll see in you in the car park later."

"Yeah, okay."

It was just the car, he told himself as he walked in the opposite direction when they parted at the cafeteria doors, heading for his locker. Just a chance to look at a 426 and maybe see how it drove.

* * *

The afternoon classes went by in a rush for a change, and Dean walked out of the building into the bright fall sunshine feeling oddly light-hearted. He found the GTX easily, and leaned against the trunk, watching the students exit and gradually diminish as they found their cars or walked to the bus stops or just walked away. Tash came out a few minutes after the main rush, her bag bulging with books. She nodded to him, and unlocked the car, throwing the pack onto the back seat as he got in.

"Where do you live?"

"The uh, motel on Pitman."

She started the engine, twisting around and reversing out and rolling through the emptying lot to the exit.

It was less than a five minute drive to the motel, and Tash pulled over, parking at the kerbside. Dean got out, and closed the door, walking past the office, and across the car park to their room. He could hear the TV going from outside the door.

"Dude, turn that damned thing down," he told his brother irritably as he walked in. Sam looked up at him and picked up the remote, turning the volume down slightly.

"You were quick."

"Gotta ride." He turned to his brother and looked at him. "I'm going out for a while, you alright here on your own?"

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. "Going out where?"

"With a girl," he said, hiding his grin as he watched Sam's nose wrinkle up.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. When'll you be back?"

"For dinner. About six thirty." He glanced at his watch.

"No problemo." Sam turned back to the TV. Dean looked at him for a moment then walked back to the door.

"Keep the volume down, okay?"

Sam nodded without looking from the screen.

Closing the door behind him, Dean walked to the car. They wouldn't be that long, he thought, it was only a few miles out to the tunnel and back.

* * *

At the end of town, Tash pulled over again, onto a broad gravel shoulder and took the car out of gear, leaving the engine running. Dean looked over at her quizzically, half his attention on the song playing on the tape deck.

She arched a brow at him. "I thought you wanted to drive?"

The smile spread over his face instantly. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." She gestured to the wheel. "You know how to handle a column shift, don't you?"

He nodded casually, trying to hide his eagerness, and slid across as she opened the door and walked around.

"Stay on this road. I'll tell you where we're turning when we get there."

He was cautious with it at first, moving slowly up the gears as they gained speed, the road almost empty of traffic. Tash gave him plenty of warning about the turn, and the road they turned onto was completely empty.

"Give her some gas, there's nothing along here for miles."

He put his foot down gently and heard the engine growl in response, the speedometer climbing smoothly. Now this was what he was talking about. The car handled like a dream, low to the road, grippy, tight.

"This is fucking awesome."

Tash grinned at him. "Yeah, concentrate on driving, we'll be up to the tunnel in about five minutes."

He knew that, had been up here before with his father and brother, when they'd first arrived. The sun was setting and he flicked on the headlights, their beams not really doing much right now.

It was over too soon; he saw the cutting and the gateway to the property that now owned the tunnel, and eased back off the accelerator, letting the car slow down. Pulling over in a wide gravelled clearing past the bend, he brought the car to a smooth stop and turned off the engine, looking over at Tash as the hot metal of the engine ticked softly.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." She shrugged off the sentiment, turning to look out the window. "Nice to see someone who appreciates her behind the wheel."

Soft golden light filled the car as the sun dropped below the level of the roof, and Dean found himself holding his breath, not really knowing why, his eyes taking in the girl who sat next to him, the curves and planes of her face, the long lashes, darker than her hair, outlining her eyes.

His gaze moved incrementally over her features, unaware that he was comparing her to someone else, or that whether it was the comparison, or feeling the power of the car under his control, or the way the light was highlighting and shadowing the curves of her full lips, slightly parted now as she looked at him with the same dawning awareness, he was lost in the moment, wondering what those lips would feel like under his.

"Uh …" he tried to say something … anything to break the moment, to return them to how it had been. Nothing was coming out. He couldn't take his eyes off her mouth, and he winced inwardly as he realised she must have seen that.

The final harmonica notes filled the car then there was silence as the tape ran out, the click as it stopped making him start slightly.

Tash's indrawn breath was loud. "It's a great album, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Great album." Dean managed to drag his eyes away, looking through the windshield at the road that curved and headed east. His heart was pounding as if he'd just run miles, his palms were damp on the wheel and his stomach was fluttering and jumping. _What the hell?_ She was just a girl, no different from any of the girls he'd taken out, made out with. Another memory hit him, a recent one. She'd been just a girl too, except that for a short time, all he'd wanted was to stay with her.

He heard her pull the cassette from the deck, the clicking noise as she slid it into the cover and pulled another one out. _Good, music was good. A distraction_.

"Do you want to drive back?" Tash pushed the tape into the deck without looking at it. Dean turned back to her, nodding, his hand reaching for the key as the first song began to play. He closed his eyes briefly at the unfairness of it. _C'mon! Not this song_.

He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. The light was fading fast, in the way of fall afternoons, the sun dropping and dusk already rolling out. The music flowed over them, a song of contradictions, at once energising and enervating, the bass and lead guitars building to their climaxes and spiralling around them, Plant's voice drawing out the words languidly. He was hyper-aware, hearing every separate note, seeing the different shades of blue in her eyes, each individual eye lash as the last of the sunlight picked them out in lines of gold, the scent of her, of the car. Only one thought existed in his mind and his eyes widened as he saw the same thought in hers.

He slid across the seat and lifted his hand slowly, his fingers curving around the back of her neck, drawing her close. He watched her eyes close as his mouth touched hers, felt his own eyelids dropping as his breath released in a soft sigh. Her lips were so soft, moving under his, and he felt her arms slide under his jacket, curl around his ribs. She was very, very different from the other girls, he thought distantly, but the thought was almost meaningless as his tongue traced the shape of her mouth and he felt her hands clutch at his shirt convulsively. His hand slipped down her back and she moved her arms up his chest and around his neck as his enclosed her, pulling her closer to him.

The kiss was long, and slow, and deep, reaching out through his body, setting off a chain reaction through the nerve centres, heat building in his groin, the music writhed and twisted in the background, filling his mind with images that weren't helping.

With Robin, it'd been a different song. Same band, different feeling. Same feeling, different girl. He could feel the difference, feel it shattering through him.

The staccato hammering at the window broke them apart, and Dean squinted out at the police officer who stood next to the car, making a 'wind down your window' gesture with his hand.

"You kids shouldn't be here." The cop bent lower and frowned as he recognised Tash. "Tash, come on, what I'm supposed to say to your old man if you get into trouble?"

"Nothing, Eddie. Absolutely nothing." She smiled at him. "We're going."

"Yeah, well, straight home." He straightened up and shook his head, turning and heading back to his patrol, muttering to himself as he went. "So locked in you didn't even notice me pulling up behind ya?"

Dean turned back to the wheel, winding the window up, and turning the key.

Tash shifted back to the passenger door, and ran her hands through her hair, her exhale audible.

The patrol car pulled out, heading east, and Dean signalled to turn right, heading back to Campbellsville, _Trampled Under Foot_ coming from the speakers at a reduced volume. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Tash as he drove, but unwilling to say anything just yet.

* * *

He pulled up in front of the motel, looking at his watch. Just a few minutes to six. That was okay.

"You regretting that?" Tash's voice sounded uncertain. He looked at her, and shook his head.

"Are you kidding? No. Why would I?" He needed to stand up and ease the situation in his jeans but he waited for her response.

"Just … never mind," she said, turning her head to look away. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah." He saw her discomfort, and leaned over, catching her jaw and turning her face back to him as he kissed her lightly. "You regret that?"

She shook her head, looking down. "No."

"Good."

He opened the door and got out, closing it behind him and watching her slide across to the driver's seat. She didn't look across to him as she put the car in gear and pulled out, doing a u-turn and driving back the way they'd come. He watched the taillights until she turned the corner and then walked across the motel parking lot to the room, his thoughts and feelings a jumbled mess in his head and an ache filling his body.

Sam looked up at him as he walked through the door.

"Hey. What's for –" Sam watched his brother his brother walk straight past him to the bathroom, the door closing with a definitive click behind him.

* * *

The day had dragged on and on unmercifully and Dean shot out of the classroom with the first brrrp of the last bell, dodging and weaving through the hallways to his locker, his fingers fumbling with the padlock, the load of books slipping from under his arm as he wrestled with it.

He jogged back to the motel, surprising Sam as he burst through the door and headed straight for their room, shucking his clothes as he went. He had enough time for a shower and something to eat, before Tash got here.

Sam sighed as he heard the shower go on in the bathroom. There was only reason for his brother to have a shower in the afternoon. Dean had a date. He'd found out a bit more about the tunnel, its construction and a couple of unsavoury rumours that had circulated after its abandonment as a working railway. He needed help though.

The shower stopped and Sam turned off the TV, waiting for his brother to come out.

"Dean, Dad is going to be pissed with us if we don't have something to show for the time he's away."

Dean glanced at him as he walked back into the bedroom. "We've got stuff to show him."

"It's mostly useless." Sam got up and followed his brother into the room, leaning against the doorway.

"What did you find out today?" The towel was flung across the bed as he pulled on clean jeans.

"Nothing," Sam said, his tone sour. "Rumours, at best."

"What kind of rumours?"

"Two people went missing from town twenty years ago. Rumour is they were murdered, thrown down the shaft into the tunnel. It's crap, man. Kids have been going through the tunnel for years and years and no one tripped over any dead bodies."

"Maybe the shaft bit was made up, but the bodies are buried there?" Dean asked, rummaging through his duffle and pulling out a clean t-shirt. He dragged it over his head.

"Or maybe nothing happened. If there was a double-murder there twenty years ago, why would the ghosts wait until now to start killing?"

"I don't know, Sam." Dean stood in front of the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair, flattening it down somewhat. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Pizza."

"We had pizza last night. Something else."

"Can we go to the grill and get burgers?"

"Don't have time for that, something we can order in."

"Then why not pizza?" Sam exhaled impatiently. "Is it necessary for you to be victim to your hormones whenever a girl appears, Dean?"

His brother turned and grinned widely. "Looks like. You'll get it one day, dude, when you're old enough to understand."

"Funny _and_ patronising. I _am_ old enough to understand, I just don't let it affect me the way you do."

Dean snorted. "If you understood, Sammy, you would know that there's no choice in the matter."

"Huh."

"Yeah, okay go phone for pizza," Dean gave in, turning back to the small mirror over the bureau and running his fingertips over his jaw. He'd shaved a couple of days before, he didn't really think he needed to do it again.

* * *

"She stood you up?" Sam lifted the slice from the box and tilted his head to catch the strings of cheese that still connected the slice to the rest of the pizza.

Dean ignored him, hunched into the armchair. She'd said seven. It was seven fifteen. Did that constitute a no-show or was it just running late? He didn't know. He'd never been in this position, waiting for a girl to show up. He caught Sam's eye and the glint of humour in it and scowled. He wouldn't be in this position _again_, that was for sure.

The noise of the GTX's engine intruded over the TV's volume, and he leapt out of the chair, making it to the door in two strides.

"Salt the room, Sam. Shotgun's under Dad's bed. Don't go out, alright?" he rattled out, looking back over his shoulder.

Sam nodded, swallowing the pizza fast. "This is the last night you go out until Friday, Dean, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. I'll be back around ten, you better be in bed before then."

The door closed behind him with a snap, and Sam got up and did up the locks.

* * *

"Sorry I was late, had to help my dad with something." Tash glanced at Dean sideways. "You didn't, uh, think I was standing you up, did you?"

"No. Course not." He shifted uncomfortably and stared through the windscreen. "Where are we going?"

"Down to the lake. It's nice. Peaceful." She made a left and followed the road as it headed down toward the water.

He felt his heart start to hammer again as she turned down a long narrow laneway, turning off the lights just before turning at the bottom. The moon had risen and the crescent was reflected in the still water. The stereo was playing quietly, not loud enough to be heard outside the car, and she left it on when she killed the engine.

He looked over at her. It wasn't that he was nervous … exactly. It was more that he felt … out of control. Up till now, he'd always called the shots, gone as far as the girls would let him, told them anything that occurred to him that would soothe their fears, ease their doubts, let him go a bit further. The girl next to him didn't seem to have any fears or doubts. If that cop hadn't shown up yesterday … he thought that Tash had been as turned on as he had been. It was a strangely unsettling thought.

He looked into the back seat, and raised an eyebrow at her. "More room back there?"

The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile as her eyes met his.

"Not one for conversation?"

He looked at her uncertainly. "Sure, if you want."

She laughed. "Sorry, I was kidding."

She crouched on the seat and half-rolled across the top into the back. He followed her, sliding across the seat to the corner.

"You okay?" The words surprised him, coming from his own mouth. She looked down and found his hand, lifting it and holding his fingers against her chest, above the slope of her breast. Through his fingertips he could feel the thud of her heart, fast but steady.

"What do you think?"

"I think I've been thinking about this since you left last night," he murmured and leaned forward, his arms circling her as his mouth covered hers.

By some strange alchemy of time and space, he felt as if the previous night and the day just vanished, and no time had passed at all. Her skin was so soft, he couldn't believe how soft it felt under his hands, under his lips. She slithered down a little, and he backed up, supporting his weight over her on his elbow and knees, his mouth finding the sensitive areas under her ear, under her jaw, over the artery that ran down the side of her neck to the hollow above her collarbone.

He looked down, at the buttons that ran up the front of her shirt, and moved his hand under the line, watching them slip out of the buttonholes, one by one, as his hand slid over the smooth warm skin of her stomach. When the last button had freed itself, he kissed her again, and shifted his hand over her ribs, his thumb following the tantalising curve of the underside of her breast, waiting for her to stop him, to break off, to sit up … to do something.

She didn't do any of those things. She arched up against his hand and his heartbeat accelerated as his thumb rubbed over her nipple, feeling it harden through the thin material of her bra.

He bent his head and his mouth found the top curve of her breast, heat flooding him as he tasted her there, the scent of her sweet and light. She moved her hands, slipping them under him and up her ribcage and he lifted his head and watched her undoing the catch at the front of the bra, pulling it aside, her breasts bare in front of him. He let his tongue run up the sweet undercurve, and closed his eyes tightly as it rasped lightly over the nipple, swirling around it and then enclosing it.

Tash arched under him again, her hips pushing against his and he groaned, somewhere deep in his chest, a liquid rush of heat surging through him. She was going to drive him crazy, he could feel it happening, sensation on sensation bucketing over him, his mind fogging over trying to keep up with how each one felt.

Sucking on her nipple, his palm rubbing over the other one, desire filling him from inside out, he barely felt her hand slide down over his ribs, along the sensitive skin of his side. He did feel her knuckles rub over him, slowly up and down the length of him, through the thick denim of his jeans. He looked up at her, his eyes open wide, and she looked back at him, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted as her breath came raggedly in and out. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. She looked like she was feeling what he was feeling … and he wondered disjointedly how far she was going to let him go.

He'd been all the way just once. And it'd been Robin's first time as well as his own, an exploration of feeling as much as sensation, tangled up with the confusion he'd felt at a glimpse of a life that could've been his, if he'd wanted it. A life without hunting. A life without his family.

All the other near misses hadn't been for a lack of trying, but something had always gotten in the way … injury or moving around, or just the girls he'd been with not ready, not willing, wanting more from him than he could honestly give them. A lot of things.

Looking into Tash's half-open eyes, he had the feeling that this girl knew what she wanted. He felt his chest catch, trying to breath in and out at the same time. He didn't want to be … done in thirty seconds. He wanted … desperately now … to please her as much as himself. After years of coaxing and lying and seeing what the girls wanted to hear, then telling them … he realised he wanted someone who wanted him.

He looked down at the pale, smooth skin beneath him, the round breasts tipped with dark rose-coloured nipples, almost painfully aware that he was getting harder and that what he wanted tonight was probably not going to be on the cards. He tried to haul back some control, but between the sight in front of him, and the feel of her hand rubbing over him, it was getting to be mission impossible. He looked away from her bare breasts, pulling in a deep breath. His gaze brushed over his watch, then jerked back. It couldn't possibly be ten yet.

Tash followed his gaze and shifted back, sitting up as he moved off her awkwardly.

"It's okay; I have to get home too," she said, ducking her head, her fingers flying as she re-fastened her clothing, pushed her hair back from her face.

"Tash." He looked at her. He was aware that his expression was vulnerable, his eyes wide with the need to know, the need to be sure. "Would we have…? Did you … ?"

She smiled at him. "Absolutely."

He wasn't sure if it was the smile or the answer, but he felt a shiver pass through him and he looked away self-consciously.

"Dean."

He felt her hand against his cheek, and looked back at her. "Have you … you've done this before, right?"

He was tempted to tell her about Robin, but it would've raised too many other questions, been too much to explain. Technically, he had. It'd been as different from this, from the girl sitting next to him, as the night was from the day, but it wasn't a lie, he thought. "Yeah, sure."

"Okay." She leaned toward him and kissed him, her arm wrapping around his neck and the kiss deepening until he felt that heat rising again, and he pulled back from her, half-smiling.

"Heh, hey … if we're calling it a night now, then no more, okay?" He looked out through the back window, stretching out his legs in the cramped space to give himself more room.

"Sure," she said, slithering fast over the back of the front seats and into the driver's seat, starting the engine and waiting for him to crawl back over into the passenger's side. He looked at her profile, trying to decide if she'd taken it as a snub or not. He couldn't tell.

Reversing back and spinning the wheel, Tash flipped on the headlights as the car straightened and headed back up the drive to the road. Dean glanced at her, and away, and back again as they travelled back to the motel, uncertain if she was disappointed, or relieved. He couldn't remember having this much trouble reading anyone before. A part of it, he realised slowly as she lifted her foot from the accelerator and pulled into the kerb in front of the motel, was that he had no idea of what was motivating her, why she wanted to be with him.

"What have you got after lunch tomorrow?" she asked, the car stopping next to the drive.

He frowned. "Not much … art, history and a free period."

"I thought we might cut out, go and do something else for the afternoon?"

He turned his head and looked at her, his throat working a little as his imagination filled his mind with what the something else would be. "Sure, sounds good."

* * *

Dean lay on the narrow single bed, feeling as if every inch of his body was on fire. In the next bed, Sam was snoring very softly, lying on his back with one arm crooked behind his head.

He couldn't sleep. Couldn't get anywhere close enough to sleep to even close his eyes, which were open, staring at the ceiling above him, the cracked plaster looking like a moonscape, lit dimly through the closed curtains by the security light outside the room.

He tried to think of something else, anything else … the case, his school work, his father, back on Friday, ghosts in general, monsters in general … none of it was working.

When he'd left Hurleyville, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Robin. Hadn't been able to shut down the memories of what it'd been like with her. He'd wanted to write, to explain but finally he'd admitted to himself that he couldn't. Couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't tell her what his life was or why he'd chosen to stay or even what she'd meant to him, a part of that oddly cocooned two months in the country where everything he'd known had been absent. She was a part of that life, that moment. He couldn't make a relationship fit into his real life.

This was different, he thought, uncertain of that, but wanting to believe it. Different in a lot of ways. He and Robin had talked about themselves, mostly. Their feelings. Their memories, the ones he could talk about, anyway. They hadn't talked about much else. With Tash, he talked about everything but what his family did. Cars, music, engineering, college even and wouldn't his brother split his sides if he knew that. It was comfortable … and easy … in a way it hadn't been with the auburn-haired girl, both of them wanting too much, too nervous, too much of the unknown facing them. Maybe, he thought, if he'd stayed a bit longer, it would've felt easier. But he couldn't – he wouldn't, he amended to himself.

The memory of Tash' face, eyes half-closed as she'd looked at him, sent a violent spasm through him and he bit down on a soft groan as the sense memory locked in his skin, of how she'd felt and tasted and what she'd done, filled him up until even the lightness of the sheet sliding over him was enough to make him ache and throb. The difference was that Tash knew what she was doing, he thought hazily, and that aroused him more powerfully, his imagination out of control.

After a while he gave up on trying to control the images and sensations his imagination was feeding to him, and he curled on his side, his eyes closed, letting them flow.

* * *

She'd shown up precisely as the lunch bell went, and they'd walked down to the car, getting in and driving out of the school grounds without anyone even noticing. This time she'd turned right, driving out through the suburbs and south east, crossing the highway and heading down a much smaller road. The number of houses had dropped after the highway and he caught flashes of blue ahead of them through the low hills.

"Green River Lake." She'd told him, when he'd asked about it, then they'd followed a gravel road to a derelict cabin at its end, and she'd pulled over next to the small boathouse that perched on the edge of the lake.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking curiously around at the broad stretch of water and the old buildings as he followed her to the access door at the side.

"This was my uncle's place. I think it still is, he died a while ago now. I used to come down here in summer, fish and sail on the lake, swim, sleep on the porch …" She walked through the door and held it open for him. The inside of the boathouse was dim and cool, reflections from the sunlit water under the boat door playing over the walls and ceiling. An inflatable camp bed mattress and a couple of sleeping bags were spread out on the floor. Dean looked at them for a long moment, then turned back to her.

He smiled a little as he asked, "I, uh, don't … I gotta know, why? Why me?"

"You feel like I'm taking advantage of you, Dean?" She smiled back, one brow rising.

"No, uh. Maybe." He shrugged. "Maybe I shouldn't be questioning this, but I am."

Tash sighed softly. "You're passing through, aren't you?"

He nodded, unsure of what that had to do with anything.

"I'm stuck here for another couple of years. And I want something … someone … uncomplicated, someone who won't bite me in the ass in a month's time or a year's."

He understood that. Really understood it. But it wasn't something he ever thought he'd hear a girl say.

She stepped in to him, her arms reaching up to link behind his neck. "This way no one gets hurt because it's not what they wanted, and I can get on with my life, without having to deal with a relationship."

He looked down at her, and realised that the girl in front of him was more like him than he'd realised. Another thought rose in his mind and he grimaced, ducking his head self-consciously.

"Tash, I don't have any, uh, protection. I didn't think …"

"S'alright, I'm on the pill. Have been for awhile, I had some problems with my period."

He looked away uncomfortably, not sure he wanted to hear the exact details. They'd covered reproductive biology at the last school and that had been enough. He heard her low laugh, and glanced back at her, smiling reluctantly as he saw the wicked humour far back in her eyes.

The first kiss was light, teasing, and she drew him toward the mattress, sinking down slowly, giving him enough time to follow her. She pulled off her boots, and he did the same, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she dragged off her jacket and button-through cotton shirt and turned to him, kneeling in front of him. His breathing was already shallow and fast and he forced himself to slow down, not to rush.

Her tongue slid along his neck, her lips left hot kisses in the deep hollow between his collarbone and the big muscles behind it and he shifted against her, rubbing himself unconsciously against her hip as his fingers teased her nipple through the translucent material of her bra.

"Think of baseball," she whispered in his ear as she pulled him down to lie next to her, and he shook his head, the game had too many connotations to sex, was too tied into what they were doing to be of any use as a distraction. He froze as he felt her fingers unbutton his jeans, her hand slipping into the gap and stroking him through the thin cotton of his shorts. He thought frantically of his father, describing the ancient Egyptians pulling organs out through the nose and found it steadied him a bit, at least it was repulsive enough to take his mind off what his body was feeling.

When her fingers gripped him, he shuddered and grabbed her hand, stilling it, his cheek against hers. "Whoa, wait … uh, it feels … it's too much, right now."

She nodded her understanding, and drew her hand away, freeing the button and zip of her jeans.

He slid his hand slowly down her stomach, his fingers disappearing under the waistband, feeling the edge of her panties, and hesitating there for a moment, not sure if it was invitation to go over or under. Tash pushed her hips up slightly, and he closed his eyes, sliding his fingertips under the elasticised band, through the crisp curls below.

She kissed him again, this time it was her tongue, lightly exploring the inside of his mouth, sending sharp impulses through his nerves. He pushed his hand deeper, fingers curling around and felt the edges of the folds of her. She was hot, and wet, and at his touch, he felt her trembling against him, her reaction making his worse.

Egyptian embalmers, he thought frantically. Shapeshifters, werewolves … he felt her rubbing against his hand and slipped first one finger, then a second into her, the moan that came from her sending his attempts at distraction into a flat spin fail.

"Dean …" Her hips bucked against his hand, and he looked into her eyes, seeing her pupils dilated, the sight somehow as compelling as the feel of her around his fingertips. "I … don't … make me wait …"

It took him an inordinately long time to work out what she meant, then he ducked his head and drew his hand out gently, pulling off the rest of his clothes as she struggled out of hers. The first touch of her skin right along the length of his body was hard to get past too, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Some distant, still sane part of his brain noted with amusement that she was a natural blonde and Cheryl's comment had been driven perhaps by envy. He bent to kiss her skin, her breasts, his fingers sliding down and into her again, spreading her a little as he manoeuvred himself over her.

He hesitated for a second, not sure why, a momentary glimpse of Robin's face in his mind, a doubt slipping past his defences, and Tash arched up against him, taking his choice away, pushing him inside of her. He felt that deep heat and velvet-soft pressure enclosing him, and the sensation wiped out all thought instantly.

Between the first time and the second, there's a world of difference. Experience, that sly teacher, had changed his perspective, changed anticipation of the unknown to the known and introduced preference.

He'd thought it would be the same, not exactly perhaps, but mostly. It wasn't. It wasn't even close to being the same, he realised dazedly, pushing in a little further, feeling her muscles drawing him in, almost pulling him into her as she pulsed around him. The shy tenderness of his first time was gone, replaced by the hunger in the girl under him that equalled his, surpassed his, he thought, struggling to control himself. His eyes were closed, and he was trying to keep from exploding when she lifted her hips and thrust hard against him, driving him in deeply, and taking all the breath from his lungs. His eyes snapped open, and he looked into her face, into her darkened eyes, the pupils huge with arousal.

When she thrust herself under him again, he started to move, his head dropping to her shoulder as the pressure inside him built, he could hear himself gasping for air, and feeling like there was none, each time he pushed deep, the muscles of his legs and back and stomach contracted sharply, softening as he pulled out, and a deep glowing pleasure flooded his body, nerves and muscle, tendons and skin.

"Hang on, just a bit longer," her whisper brushed his ear and he tried, he was really trying, finding a rhythm that matched hers, each inward thrust detonating along his nerve endings until he couldn't keep up, couldn't control the reverberations that had begun deep between them.

He felt her start to shudder beneath him, a violent trembling that seemed to ripple down her body, then he felt the ripple inside, running straight up him, a feel like fingers gripping him, and he thrust in through it, pressure squeezing him, unable to tell what he was feeling and what she was feeling, the sensations drowning him as his body contracted, and his balls drew up and he came inside her, hard and helplessly.

He felt her arms wrap around him, holding him close as the aftershocks rolled through them, their heartbeats slowed, thudding almost in time with each other.

"That was your first time, wasn't it?" Tash's voice was low and soft. He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head.

"Second," he admitted.

"You should have told me."

He lifted his head and gave her a lop-sided smile. "Would you have changed your mind if I had?"

The smile she returned was warm, reassuring. "No. But we could have done some things differently, made it easier for you."

His forehead creased worriedly. "Was it … I thought you … did you?"

"Oh, yeah, I did," she told him, stretching out under him slowly. "Was it what you thought it would be?"

The smile that usually came automatically faltered a little as he remembered how intimate it had felt with her, how she'd participated so much more in going after her own pleasure, carrying him along with her almost. It hadn't been at all like he'd thought it would be, like the last time. It had been so much more that he couldn't begin to figure out how to explain it.

"I wasn't disappointed." His face scrunched a little at the inadequacy of the words as they came out. She laughed, her body squeezing him in waves.

"Glad to hear that."

* * *

"Tash! Your boyfriend's here." Mr Wilkinson called up the stairs and Dean looked at the floor.

Was he her boyfriend? They went out, they'd been going out for a few days now, seeing a movie, getting something to eat, but the primary goal of those dates happened later, in the backseat of her car, or down at the boathouse if they had enough time. He was definitely her lover, the old-fashioned word accurate but making him feel more uncomfortable than boyfriend … but he didn't know exactly what he was to her, and he didn't know why he was worrying about that.

"Just go on up, Dean, she's probably got the stereo cranked so high she can't hear anything. Second door on the right." Her father had looked him over when he'd arrived the first time, suspicion in his eyes, and had grilled him for a half-hour. Whatever he'd said seemed to have worked, now Mr Wilkinson was pretty okay with him turning up.

"Uh, yeah, okay." Dean started up the stairs. He could hear the music, pounding softly from the doorway at the end of the hall.

Tash was sitting at the desk, surrounded by books when he opened the door. She didn't look up as he closed it behind him, and walked over to her. She jumped slightly as she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision and reached out to turn the volume down.

"Hey."

"Hey, am I early?" he asked, looking at what she was working on.

"No, not really. I'm just reviewing." She stood up, closing the books on the desk, smiling as he blocked her way and kissed her.

"Physics?" He glanced back down at the desk.

"Mm-hmm." Tash picked up her jacket from the end of the bed and shrugged into it, waiting by the door for him.

He walked to her and followed her out, and down the stairs.

His father had come back from Lexington a few days ago with a lot of new information, but none of it was especially significant to the case they were working on. He and Sam had been at the library most afternoons, either on the computer or in the stacks, looking at the newspaper records for the last twenty years, but Dad had been agreeable to him having the nights off.

On his return, John had taken one look at his oldest son and realised that something had changed while he'd been gone. Dean had reluctantly allowed that he'd met a girl, and they were dating, and had left it at that. His father had hidden his amusement and cut the boy some slack on the hours of extracurricular activities, provided that Dean promised to keep his head on the job when he was working.

"You know, you're pretty amazing with engines, Tash." He looked at her as she eased the GTX into the narrow space down near the lake. "How come you don't want to do that?"

She turned off the engine and left the accessories on, the Stones playing quietly on.

"I do, kind of. Car engines are okay. I'd like to design and build something bigger, though." She pushed her hair back from her face, leaning back in the seat. "I want to do engineering, so that's a lot of work; I need really good math results, and good science results to get in."

He felt himself grimace involuntarily at the mention of the subjects. He didn't understand it, this drive of hers, but he knew it was important to her. A lot more important to her than anything else.

She turned her head to look at him, smiling as she saw the expression. "Anyway, let's not talk about that now."

She slid across the seat to him, turning the volume of the tape up a little on her way, her arms slipping around his neck and her mouth covering his as she swung her leg over his.

He let himself get lost in the familiar shiver of desire that spiralled through him with her kiss, lost in the knowledge that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and their love-making was equal, a giving and taking of each other that never failed to make him forget absolutely everything.

She'd been right about the things they could do to make it last longer. He'd known she had more experience than he did from the first time but he'd come to realise that she had a lot more experience, experience she was happy to share.

He'd told her about Robin, a few nights ago, here by the lake when they lain together along the back seat, wrapped in each other's arms, letting the sweat cool on their bodies. She'd heard him out and hadn't asked any questions, and he hadn't been able to tell if she'd felt anything about that at all.

* * *

Tash looked down at the pack in her hand, feeling her heartbeat racing as she carefully recounted the days. The blisters for seven of the pills in the pack were coded a different colour from the rest. Three of them were missing and she still hadn't started to bleed.

_Don't panic_, she thought, _give it another day or two. With the exams and everything, maybe it's just stress_. She hadn't felt the heaviness, or the irritability that usually came a day or two before either. She bit her lip and put the pack back in the drawer of her nightstand. _Do not worry about it until you're sure_.

* * *

"Thought you were going out with your girlfriend tonight?" Sam looked at his brother as he brought in the gear bag from the car and dumped it onto the table.

Dean shook his head. "She had to study. And she's not my girlfriend, dipshit, we just go out."

John looked up at the slight edge in his son's voice, brows drawing together fractionally. "Sammy, go brush your teeth."

Sam looked at his father and shrugged, getting off the couch and heading for the bathroom.

"You okay, Dean?"

Dean pulled out the shotguns and laid them on the table, glancing behind him. "Yeah. Fine."

John hesitated. He didn't want to pry into his son's love life, but he didn't want Dean to feel like he had no one to talk to about it either.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Dean frowned, as he broke down the handgun and set the pieces out on the table. "No. Not really."

John leaned back, rubbing his hand over his jaw. _Not really_ sounded more like _yes_ to him.

"Something happen?"

"I don't know." Dean walked around the table and sat down, pulling out the solvent and oil automatically, setting the files and brushes out, reaching for the soft cloth. He looked up at his father as he began to disassemble the handgun, uncertainty in his eyes. "I guess something must have, but I wasn't told about it."

"Ah." John got up from the armchair, and walked to the fridge, opening it and pulling out two bottles of beer. He put one on the table beside his son and carried the other back to the chair. "No fights or hurt feelings or, uh, conversations about the future?"

Dean shook his head, opening the bottle absently and swallowing a mouthful. "No, nothing like that. Yesterday it was all good. Today … she's busy." And she had kept her distance, standing away from him, far enough so that he knew she didn't want to be touched, or kissed, or held. He didn't know how to say that to his father, though.

John thought about it. Ten years with Mary had been illuminating in the ways of women, his wife had been passionate and volatile and there'd been a few nights when they'd fought until dawn. Usually those fights had started over something trivial and then somewhere in the middle watches of the night, had turned out to be about something else, something not trivial at all.

"Maybe she just needs a bit of time to think about things?" he ventured finally, watching his son's face.

Dean shook his head. That wasn't it. Tash knew what she was doing, she knew what she wanted. She was maybe the only girl he'd met who really knew those things, who hadn't tried to get him to like her more. If anything, he thought he felt more for her than she did for him. Which was a whole separate issue.

"No. That's not it. She's very, uh, clear about what she wants." He ducked his head and looked down at the gun pieces in his hands, and John suddenly realised that his son was doing more than just going out with this girl.

"You're, uh, being careful?" he asked hesitantly. Dammit, that'd felt awkward, they'd had the conversation a couple of years ago, but he hadn't really revisited it.

Dean looked up, relieved that his father had understood without the need for further explanation. "Yeah."

"Good," John said, his held breath gusting out. "Give it a couple of days, some time, see how she feels then." He felt for his son, he could see that this one had managed to get under the boy's skin more than his previous girls, but there was nothing else he could offer.

"Yeah."

* * *

Sam was snoring softly again and Dean rolled onto his shoulder, his back to his little brother, his eyes wide and staring into the darkness as he thought about the conversation with his father again.

He'd expected a lecture, and had been vaguely surprised when it hadn't appeared, his father looking as uncomfortable as he'd felt to be discussing the subject at all. He'd wanted to tell him that he hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't done anything different at all, but those words wouldn't come out. He'd wanted to tell his father that it was eating at him, not knowing what was going on, but he couldn't say that either. He wasn't that guy, the one who thought he was feeling more than what he was feeling. He wasn't. He just didn't like changes, especially ones that made no fucking sense.

* * *

"Uh, Dean. Someone to see you."

Dean spun around at his father's dry announcement through the bedroom door. He pulled on his jacket and boots and hurried out. Tash stood by the front door to the room, her face expressionless.

"Nice meeting you, Mr Winchester," she said stiffly to John, taking a step back out through the open door as he crossed the room. Dean glanced at his father and closed the door behind them.

Two days had passed since his conversation with Dad. Two days of Tash pretty much ignoring him at school, and being unavailable when he'd finally gone over to her place to find her. Mr Wilkinson had been sympathetic but unable to help.

She walked quickly to the car, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine as he walked around the front end and opened the passenger door, barely getting it shut before she was pulling out onto the street.

He looked at her as she made a right, heading for the lake. Her face was tight, filled with tension and she was gripping the wheel, her knuckles showing white under the skin. He swallowed the sarcastic comment he'd been about to make and decided to wait.

The tyres crunched over the gravel as she drove down the dead-end road but when the engine had stopped, the silence of the little clearing by the lake was very deep. He chewed on the side of his lip, watching her, waiting for some explanation.

"I'm late," she said finally, her breath rushing out with the words, her gaze fixed on the tree trunk in front of the car.

Dean frowned. What did that mean? Late for what? He thought later he might have gotten it if he'd thought there'd be any danger at all of it happening, but he just hadn't, so it didn't occur.

"Late for what?"

Tash leaned back against the seat, her eyes closing. "My period is late. It should have been four days ago, and still nothing."

That hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes. "You're pregnant?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Probably," she said, turning her head to look over at him. "It's not certain, I have to wait at least another seven days before I can take a pregnancy test."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

He felt a trace of anger rise at the remark. "Hey, you might have known about this for days, but I just found out. Sorry I can't think of anything more profound to say about it."

She shook her head tiredly. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. I've had longer to deal with it."

The speed of her apology made him feel like a douche. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to sound … it was a shock, okay? I thought we were safe."

"You and me both," she agreed with a soft sigh. "Anyway, I just thought you needed to know why I haven't wanted to … why I was staying away."

He nodded, trying to ignore the spurt of relief that felt incredibly inappropriate at her explanation. Turning toward her, he said, "Look, it's a surprise, okay? But you don't have to go through it alone –"

"Dean, this isn't your problem. Really. I'll take care of it," Tash cut him off, straightening up slightly in the seat. "I just didn't want you think that …you'd done anything wrong."

"Of course it's my problem," he objected. "It's _our_ problem." His brows drew together as he wrestled with what she'd said, what he thought she was saying. "From what I remember I was there too."

She glanced at her watch and started the engine, twisting around to reverse back out. Dean looked at her in surprise.

"Tash …"

"We'll be late for school."

Straightening the car from the three-point turn, she put it into first, accelerating as they climbed the hill. "I couldn't tell you there. But we still have to go."

His mouth thinned out and he turned away as he realised that the conversation was over. His thoughts tripped and fell over each other. Pregnant. Maybe. Seven days. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the passenger window and wondered how easy it was going to be to get through them.

* * *

Dean sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, staring blankly through the windshield at the black mouth of the tunnel, barely visible against the dark hillside.

They'd been out here every night for the past three, working a grid pattern through and over the tunnel, looking for signs of an ysbryd mynydd, a Welsh mountain spirit that apparently favoured the removal of organs from living creatures for its sustenance. He'd never heard of one before, but his father had triple checked his sources and was convinced that's what they were facing. It got better. The ysbryd mynydd wasn't quite diurnal or nocturnal, taking its victims just before dawn and just after dusk. Which, he thought vaguely, was probably why, over the years, most of the kids who'd dared each other to come to the tunnel at night had managed to walk out alive. It operated on a twenty year cycle, and it had been Sam who'd discovered that the supposed double-murder twenty years ago had actually been the first kills of the creature.

He felt his thoughts drift away from the case, as they were doing more and more often now, settling back onto the well-beaten track of what he would do if the test came back positive. As much as it terrified him, there was really only one thing he could do. And more bizarrely, the more he thought about it, the less scary it became. He liked Tash, they had a lot in common, he could get a job, especially here where there were a lot of jobs around for labourers or even as a mechanic with her dad.

His stomach knotted when he thought about telling his father. But he knew without a doubt that Dad would agree with him, no matter how much it screwed his plans for the demon, John Winchester would insist that his son take responsibility for what he'd done, and make it right. There would probably be a lot of yelling and fury first, he thought, but that would be the final outcome.

Tash still wasn't really talking to him. She wasn't … unfriendly … exactly. Just suddenly very busy. He bit his lip, remembering their conversation yesterday.

"_Don't you think we need to talk about this?" He'd waited for her to come out, leaning against the GTX._

"_No. Not now, Dean." She'd shaken her head and opened the car door, then stopped, her expression almost exasperated as she'd met his gaze over the top of the door. "When we know for sure, alright? It's pointless to discuss something that might not even happen, don't you think?"_

_He hadn't been able to argue with her, and she'd seen that, getting into the car and driving off, leaving him standing beside the building, wondering._

"Dean."

He had the feeling that she already had a plan for whatever came next. He also had the feeling that he wouldn't get a say in it. He didn't know why that bothered him so much.

"DEAN!"

His head snapped up and he looked at his father standing a few feet away, getting out of the car straight away.

"We're ready. I need the steel wire. And the bolt cutters." John had started to turn away then stopped. "Get your head back here, son, I don't want to have to tell you again."

Dean nodded and walked to the trunk, popping it open and pulling the wire and cutters out, slamming it shut again and following his father across the field. He needed to be focussed, to keep his attention on what was going on here and now.

The ysbryd mynydd were susceptible to iron. Even a scratch would kill them. That was about the only good thing about them, he thought as he switched on his flashlight and entered the pitch blackness of the long tunnel. They were incredibly strong, able to manifest to a solid form, and they only had to touch a person to put them out. It would make a confrontation … challenging.

In their home environment they lived in caves. Here, the tunnel had been unused for so long one had seemingly moved in. He played the beam over the walls, looking for the glint of gold in the rock. His father said that they marked the entrance to their homes with it.

Ahead of him, he could see John's flashlight moving over the other side of the tunnel. Sam waited for them at the top of the exhaust shaft, his light shining straight down into the tunnel. His brother had to give them warning when the eastern sky began its first paling. Lifting the light to shine over his watch, Dean saw it was only three-thirty. Dawn shouldn't be for at least another hour, the sun wouldn't actually rise over the horizon until closer to seven a.m. although the creature could attack within two hours of that. He swept the beam over the rock, looking for that gleam, that warm yellow gleam of the soft metal pressed into the wall.

_She did know what she was going to do_, the thought ghosted into his mind a few minutes later. He pushed it away irritably, staring harder at the rock wall beside him as he moved the light over every inch.

_And no, you're not involved_, it persisted.

He stopped walking and pulled in a deep breath. No matter what she decided, it was her choice, he told himself sharply, starting to move slowly forward again.

_I don't get a say in this? _

_Why do you want a say in it? You know what she wants, it doesn't include you, or a child, or having a family_.

That thought cut even though it shouldn't have. He wasn't ready for a family, not even for a girlfriend, apparently. Why the fuck did any of this matter so much to him suddenly? He was a hunter. He wanted to be a hunter, with his own family, his father and his brother. The idea of a (_wife, companion, someone to love, child, family_) normal life was impossible. He didn't know where the thought had come from but it wasn't real, couldn't happen.

He was about fifty yards from the end the tunnel, he thought, and his father was already out, he could see the flashlight examining the rocks around the mouth, when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He dropped to the rough gravelled ground automatically, turning at the same time, the light swinging around to illuminate the thing that was standing there in the darkness.

Lit up by the prosaic yellow light of the flashlight, Dean's mind baulked at the sight of it, disbelieving the shrivelled mottled black flesh that sagged from an impossibly elongated skeletal frame, the glittering green eyes that lay insect-like on either side of the long skull, the clear crystal fangs that sparkled in the flashlight's beam, dripping constantly with a yellowish saliva that steamed as it hit the ground below. His throat closed, as a long arm reached out toward him, the fingers waving slightly at him. His hands scrabbled in his pockets for the switchblade knife he carried, and he scrambled backwards over the sharp rocks, trying to get enough distance between them to get it out before it could touch him.

His fingers found the blade and brought it out and up, the blade snapping free at the same moment as the spirit's fingers reached forward and touched his face. Dropping onto his back, he didn't hear his father's roar from the entrance, or see the creature stare furiously at the nick the steel blade had left in its wrist, before it boiled suddenly and splattered to the ground, black ichor and a greyish smoke wisping up.

John reached Dean a few seconds later, looking at the round black burn on his son's forehead, his hand dropping to rest against the side of his neck. Dean's heart beat strongly and steadily, and his chest rose and fell as he breathed, and his father slumped forward, relief washing away the fear.

* * *

"You want to tell me what the hell you were so occupied with that that thing could get so close behind you without you noticing it?" John asked, swinging around the end of the bed and stopping next to his son.

Dean leaned back against the pillow, looking down at his hands, wincing inwardly at the edge in his father's voice.

"Nothing," he said after a moment's silence.

"Right." John looked at him, brows drawn together. "You could have been killed, you know that, right?"

He looked away, toward the room's single window. "Well, I wasn't."

"Sooner or later, luck always runs out, Dean. Don't forget that, okay?"

He turned his head back to his father, a flush of shame heating his face as he saw the defeat in his face. "I know."

They both looked around as Sam opened the door. "Uh, someone to see you, Dean."

John looked from Sam, who was making meaningful eye signals at his brother, to Dean, and stood up. "Think you'll be alright to have something substantial to eat later on?"

"Yeah, count on it." He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the door.

Sam moved out, and John followed him, and Tash walked in and shut the door behind her carefully before she walked over to the bed.

"What happened to you?" She sat on the edge of the bed and looked curiously at the bandage over his forehead.

"Nothing much. Just got a bit close to a welding rod," he said with a shrug, his effort to appear casual failing as his gaze locked onto hers.

"Oh." She looked around the room and then back to him, smiling slightly. "I'm not. Test came back negative, all three of them."

It wasn't what he'd been expecting to hear and it took a little while for the words to sink in. Nodding slowly, he looking at the window, focussing on the bare branch beyond the frame.

"That's good, then."

"Yeah." Tash watched his profile, a little perplexed. "You should be relieved. I know I am."

"Yeah, I am."

"Dean?"

He looked at her, hiding the uncertainties of his feelings away. "Yeah?"

"You are relieved, aren't you? I mean, you didn't want to get stuck in that life … did you?"

He smiled humourlessly, looking down at his hands, resting on his stomach over the covers as he thought about what to say to that. "Honestly? I don't know, Tash. I thought about it … thought about each way."

He had, he thought. Thought about staying here, living a normal life, having a family of his own. A part of him had been shocked by the idea, shocked that he could even consider it. It'd been not long after his sixteenth birthday that he'd gone with his father when they'd caught wind of a werewolf in the forest along the western flanks of the Appalachians in New York state. He couldn't forget how it'd felt, hunting the monster through the black woods, the crossbow heavy in his hands, his father a few paces away, both of them knowing exactly what they were doing. Nothing could equal the satisfaction he'd felt when he'd brought it down, the silver-headed quarrel hitting the heart precisely. It was his life. It was all he'd ever wanted to do. It was, he'd thought later, all he knew how to do.

But another part of him had been quietly glad for the second shot, glad that it was something not of his choosing but forced on him. He didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what the hell he wanted right now.

"I could've done it, I guess."

She picked up his hand, holding it between her own. "We would've hated each other within two years."

He looked up at the certainty in her voice, his brows closing together. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because I've seen it happen again and again. I have two older sisters. Both did the same thing," Tash told him, shrugging a little. "They were happy for a while, but they didn't have enough in common with their boyfriends. They're both divorced now. Single parents."

"They're not us."

She smiled a little at that. "We're worse. We have just enough in common to last, not enough to make it worth lasting."

He shook his head. "I don't get what you mean."

"Yeah, you do. You just haven't let yourself think about it because of all the feelings that got stirred up. When they go, you'll know."

"Kind of deep, isn't it?"

She looked away as she said, "Sex isn't love, Dean. It's great, and it makes us feel close and intimate but we're not, not really."

When she turned back to him, he saw conviction in her face, and felt his stomach drop, a little.

"Love is being able to be yourself, completely. Not having to hide anything. We both hide things, from each other, from ourselves." She let go of his hand, shifting her position on the edge of his bed. "Your brother said you were leaving soon, tonight or tomorrow maybe?"

"Yeah, that's the plan," he said distractedly.

He didn't know what to think about what she'd said. She was right about the feelings. He wanted to stay here, wanted to know her better, wanted her to care about him the way he cared about her. Was that because of what they'd done together? Was that all that was? Had that been all it had been with Robin as well? It didn't feel that way to him, but then what the hell did he know about it?

She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth, taking him by surprise, pulling away before he could do anything about it.

"I don't think I'll ever forget you, Dean Winchester," she told him, getting to her feet. She gestured to the bandage around his head. "Take care of yourself."

She was going. And he would be going. And whatever had been between them would die a natural death. He nodded. "You too, Tash. Pretty sure you'll be a hell of an engineer."

The grin she gave him lit up her face, and he felt his throat close a little as she left the room.

He lay back against the pillow, hearing her leave the main room, turning onto his side and closing his eyes.

In his nightmares, he saw again the fire in the nursery, the billowing flames shooting out of the doorway, felt again the terrifying responsibility of carrying his baby brother down the stairs and out of the house. In his nightmares, he saw them all taken, his father, his brother, nothing he could do about it and he woke from those with a scream locked in his throat and his heart thundering against his ears.

In the good dreams, he felt arms close around him, warmth and love and the faintest scent of flowers, his senses filled with comfort. And since Hurleyville, another layer had been added to that, a need for acceptance and desire and a fierce yearning to be close to someone, to have someone know him, someone know him down where he lived and breathed, where he was himself and not son or brother or hunter. Where he could admit that he didn't think he was strong enough, smart enough or brave enough to save the people he loved.

He didn't know which was the stronger of the two.

* * *

_Don't be afraid to go after what you want to do, and what you want to be. But be willing to pay the price._


	17. Chapter 17 In the Desert of My Dreams

**Chapter 17 In the Desert of My Dreams**

* * *

_The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives all hurt._

_~ Max Lerner_

* * *

_**1996. North Carolina.**_

The house sat a mile from the sound, and a little further from the lake, tucked between the two bodies of water. It was an old weatherboard cottage, two storey, six rooms, with a wide porch that ran right around it. The boards were painted white, the trim a soft blue-grey, but the paint was wearing thin, battered each year by the fierce Atlantic storms rolling in from the east in the winters, and baked in the long, humid summers. Wiping his finger along the window sill, Sam could see the salt crystals on it, sparkling in the bright fall sunshine.

He walked along the porch, looking over the dunes and out to the sound. It had been a long time since they'd stayed anywhere near the sea, and the briny scent was fresh and cold and welcome, despite the dampness it seemed to leave on skin, hair and clothes.

Down in the marshes he could see someone wading into the water, net in one hand, occasionally bending and peering into the water. He wondered what they were doing, and after a moment's hesitation, he ran down the wooden steps and headed down there.

* * *

John stared at the data in frustration. There was a missing chunk from 1995. The demon had come up last year, he could see the signs surrounding the gate and the omens that had broadcast its presence across the country. But the previous pattern was a duration of eight-nine months, in '95 the omens had ceased after only three months. Either he'd severely fucked up the work or … his eyes narrowed as he flipped through the pages … the demon had changed the pattern. After twenty six years and a dozen regular visits, why would it change? And last year – if he'd been able to get this data when it had been collected, he'd have had the godamned bastard.

He turned away from the table and stalked to the window, watching the sunlight dance on the waters of the distant sound. So godamned close every time and he never quite got there. Something had happened in '95, the question was what. And where. His eye caught a movement on the marshes and he watched his youngest son running down through the thick grass. At least they'd be here for a couple of months. He had to get the research brought up to date and into order, they'd been hunting so often the last year that he was falling behind with it again. 1995, he thought, running through his memories of the past year. There were the blizzards, of course, but he didn't think that fit. Earthquake in China. Mad cow disease in Britain. None of them what he was looking for. He shook his head. He'd have to go down to the library in the morning, look it up.

* * *

Dean was lying under the car, his attention on replacing the oil pan plug, when he heard a light voice near his feet. He tightened the plug and wriggled out over the loose sandy soil, raising his hand and shading his eyes as he looked up.

"Hey." The girl stood a couple of feet away, her back to the sun so that he couldn't see her face clearly. He knew who she was. In the sparsely populated area, the weirder ones stood out. She sat next to him in English at the tiny high school on the other side of the lake. He couldn't think what she was doing here. They hadn't spoken more three words to each other in class.

"Hey." He rolled onto his feet, feeling at a distinct disadvantage on the ground. At least when he was standing, she had to look up at him. He waited for a long, uncomfortable moment for her to say something else, but she seemed to be content to stand there and look at him, as if she was waiting for him to say something. It didn't take much longer for the silence to get too loud for him.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh … uh, yeah. Did you take home that book we were supposed to read?" Her face screwed up slightly as she tried to remember the title. "I can't remember what it was called."

"The Pearl?" He glanced back at the car. He still had to change the filter.

"Yeah. Have you finished it?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, good. Can I borrow it?"

She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than him, her hair long and straight, a colour that defied definition, somewhere between molasses and honey. He couldn't tell much about the rest of her; the long khaki pants, layers of sweatshirts and coat she habitually wore were all over-sized and shapeless, effectively hiding her entire body from view.

"Sure." He couldn't work out why this couldn't have waited until the next day, but it didn't matter much to him anyway. He'd read the book when he and Sam had realised that the television sitting in the corner of the living room didn't work, purely for something to do. She could have it.

He turned and walked up onto the porch, opening the screen door, and bumping into her as he stepped back. She moved aside, with a soft laugh.

"Sorry."

He hadn't heard her behind him, hadn't realised that she was following on his heels. There weren't all that many people – or things – that could sneak up that effectively on him. As he opened the front door, he turned, his mouth opening to tell her to wait outside. She looked back at him, her dark grey eyes wide and friendly, and the words died his throat. His little brother had a similar effect on him, sometimes. Repressing an exasperated sigh, he stepped aside and let her go through the door first.

She stopped a few steps in, looking around the simple room curiously as he walked down the short hall to the room at the back of the house he'd claimed for his bedroom. Grabbing the book from the nightstand, he brought it out, shutting the door behind him quickly.

"Here." He handed her the book. She took it, looking down at the cover.

"Thanks," she said, smiling and looking up at him. "Lost mine the first week of school."

The smile was something special, it lit up her eyes and showed a row of even, white teeth, and a pair of dimples on either side of her mouth. Her face went from being quite ordinary to … not pretty, really, he thought, something else, something more. He found himself smiling back, reluctantly.

"Did you like it?" she asked. He looked at her, unable to think what she meant. She lifted the book and he nodded.

"Uh … yeah, it was good," he said distractedly. It had been, but having conversations about books wasn't something he was used to doing anymore than he was used to having strange kids turn up at his home. Glancing at the door, he wondered where she lived. "Do you … uh … need a ride home?"

She shook her head. "No, I like to walk."

She turned and walked out the front door and down the steps of the porch. He followed slowly, then called after her.

"How come you wanted it today?"

She turned around to him, still walking, backwards now toward the car. "Oh, we've got a test on it tomorrow morning." She waved and spun around, reaching the road and heading back toward the town.

He rubbed his hand over his face. A test tomorrow. Great. Fine. He let out the deep exhale and went back to the car, pulling the filter from its box and grabbing the wrench.

* * *

Sam watched the boy curiously. He was walking through the water, which was just over his knees, hunched over as he looked down. The short back-and-sides dark hair and preppy shirt didn't go with the muddy shorts or wire-framed glasses.

"What are you looking for?" he called, stopping on the bank. The boy looked up with a start, almost dropping his net.

"None of your business." He turned away. Sam's eyebrows rose.

"Sorry if I startled you."

The boy walked away slowly through the water, following the shoreline of the shallow bay to the east. Sam walked the same way, following the bank. He wasn't a huge fan of rudeness but he had nothing better to do, even if he was annoying the guy.

The boy looked up at him, annoyed. "Look, if you have to know, I'm looking for shortnose sturgeon, an endangered sp-"

"Species, found along the Atlantic coast in estuaries. Yeah, I know what they are," Sam said mildly, climbing down the bank to the water's edge. "Why are you looking for them? They won't spawn until spring."

The boy was standing in the water, his expression no longer antagonistic. "Uh … my uncle lives near here. He's marine biologist and he asked if I could see if I could find any signs that there might be an adult population here."

"Have you found any?" Sam hunkered down, crossing his arms over his knees as he looked obliquely past the glare on the water.

"Some signs, but no fish." The boy looked up at him. "I'm Ryan."

"Sam." He nodded. "Want some help?"

"Yeah, two pairs of eyes are better than one." Ryan looked up, over Sam's head at the distant roof of the house. "You living up there?"

"Yep, for the next couple of months, anyway." Sam pulled off his sneakers and socks, tying the laces together and hanging them around his neck. He waded into the water cautiously, trying not to stir up the bottom, his skin goosepimpling in the cold brine.

"I thought it'd be warmer," he said, surprised at the chill. Ryan shook his head, gesturing toward the river mouth to the west.

"There have been a few big storms over the last month, and the Sound is nearly all fresh at the moment, much colder than salt."

"How come you're living with your uncle?" Sam asked, stopping and peering down into the water, watching the sediment he'd kicked up settle back down around his feet.

"Parents are getting a divorce." Ryan turned slowly away, walking carefully out a little further.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. They hate each other."

Sam looked up, wondering at the other boy's casual denouncement. "You're all right with that?"

"No, but I don't have a say." Ryan turned his head to look back at Sam. "It might even work in my favour, if they fight for long enough."

"What do you mean?" Sam moved after him, staring down at the wavering plants. The sturgeons laid their eggs upstream, he remembered reading, and the current carried the eggs from the female. The eggs were highly adhesive, and he looked for clumps and individuals on the plants that grew around the shoreline. He could almost hear his brother's derisive 'geek'.

"Dad had everything mapped out for me." Ryan stopped and looked down into the water. "That might change now."

"Mapped out how?" Sam looked up at him curiously.

"You know, the right schools, the right college, the right job, the right wife, the right house … yada yada." His nose was almost touching the water. "Come here, have a look at these."

Sam waded slowly over to him, bending and looking into the smooth water. There were several dozen round eggs clinging to the reed stems.

"They're the right size and colour. Are you allowed to take samples?" He turned his head to other boy, who shook his head.

"No, Uncle Peter gave me this." Ryan pulled a bulky camera from the satchel that hung around his neck. "Hang onto the net."

Sam took it, watching as he put the camera under the water, and took several photographs of the egg clusters.

"Pot luck focussing?"

The boy grinned. "Automatic. Some shots come out better than others but it's cheaper than a dive camera and more convenient than snorkel, mask and the rest of it."

"Don't you want to go to the best schools and college?"

"Not really." Ryan looked out over the Sound. "I'd rather live here and be a fisherman than go through all that."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want it. Any of it. I'm not getting a choice in the matter and it's my life."

That rang a whole clarion of bells for Sam. "Yeah, well I know how that feels."

"You got pressure from your folks as well?" Ryan turned back to him.

"My dad and my brother," Sam said. "My mom died when I was a baby."

"Sorry." Ryan looked up at the bank. "I've got some food and a couple of cold beers a bit further upstream. Take a break?"

Sam nodded. They turned and walked to the bank, climbing up and following the edge.

* * *

John woke later than usual, rolling over on the sagging mattress and looking out of the windows. The Sound was again smooth and calm, sunlight dazzling as it was reflected from the water. He lay back and stretched out, feeling the slight pull in his right shoulder. The ghoul's attack in '90 had reduced the full range of the joint, but not enough to make it a liability. It twinged a little when the air was moist and humid.

Library, groceries, fuel, he thought and realised he'd have to drive the boys in to school today. He got up and searched through the pile of clothes heaped over the blanket box at the end of the bed. And laundry, he added to the mental list.

Dean looked up as his father walked into the kitchen. Sam turned from the counter, finishing his cereal.

"I'll take you in today." John poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. "Got some stuff to do in town. What time do you need to be picked up?"

Dean looked at Sam. "Uh … three is fine."

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah." They grabbed their bags and books, and followed him out to the car.

"Got the oil changed yesterday?" he asked as he turned the key.

"Yessir." Dean looked down at his fingernails, which were still black around the edges.

As soon as he'd dropped them off in front of the school, John drove around to the community library, parking in the lot. He got out and walked into the library, going straight to the librarian's desk.

"I'm looking for a way to find out what happened nationally in 1995," he said without preamble. The librarian looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Probably the quickest way would be Nexis." She turned to the screen in front of her. "We have a subscription and you pay to use the subscription to search for the data."

"It's a computer database?" John peered over her shoulder.

"Yes. It accesses over twenty thousand sources for news, biographical material, references, legal and criminal findings." She glanced up him. "It's very useful."

She stood up, and walked around her desk. "There's a terminal in the computer room you can use."

He followed her to the small room at the back of the library. Two computers sat on the desks there, along with a printer and copier. She gestured to the closest computer. "You can use this one. Just hit Control-P to print out whatever records you want to keep." She pointed to the keys on the keyboard. "The break key will stop the records from scrolling."

"Thanks." He turned, watching her leave and sat down in front of the machine. _Won't this be fun_, he thought, his eyes searching the screen for a place to start. _There it was, Search_. He typed in two keywords and pressed Enter. The screen went blank for a moment and then the information came up, scrolling fast up the screen. He hit the break key and went to the top of list, eyes narrowing as he started to read.

Two hours later he had a stack of printouts and a number of missing persons files, which he thought were probably homicide cases.

Every child he'd tracked of Azazel's 1973 visitation was dead, accidentally or deliberately. No wonder the demon had cut his visit short. They'd turned twenty three, developed their powers and been killed, or killed each other. The two he'd found two years ago had developed their powers earlier, at twenty. He wondered what the difference between them was, and made a mental note to check it out against the list of criteria he'd developed from the demon's victims.

Picking up the groceries for the week from the small local store and the laundry he'd dropped off at the town's single laundromat, he drove back to the house an hour later, his thoughts churning along the same old path.

He took the research printouts to the closed-in sun porch he'd turned into his study. Pinned to the corkboard, the faces of the five young people stared back at him from the photographs. Checking off the towns they'd come from, he wasn't surprised to find them matching exactly with that list of towns that Jim had given him for the demon's '73 tour that had begun with a massacre of nuns in a convent in Maryland.

He'd searched for the children born in 1983, along the track that Azazel had left, finding more than a dozen. Sinking down into the straight-backed armchair, John stared at the photographs pinned to the board near the towns they'd been born. His son smiled at him from the photo that was among them, in Lawrence, Kansas.

* * *

Dean looked down at the test paper in front of him. He remembered the story, it had been good. He picked up his pencil and turned the paper over with the rest of the class, glancing sideways at the girl beside him. She was already writing, pencil scratching over the paper, hair hanging down, concealing her profile.

When the bell rang, he leaned back and handed up the paper to the kid who was collecting them. Wasn't so bad, he thought, getting up. He joined the milling press of students as they squeezed through the doorway into the hall and walked out with them into the sunshine.

"There you are." An arm slipped around his waist and he looked down, smiling at the slender blonde tucking herself against his side.

"Why didn't you come out to the beach yesterday?" Marilyn pouted at him.

"Had things to do." He shrugged and draped his arm over her shoulders, letting her steer him around the corner of the building to the shaded area where they ate lunch. She was very pretty, in the conventional sense, wide blue eyes, pale blonde hair, tight, fashionable clothing showing off the curves and hollows of her slim body.

"Dean, man, where were you yesterday?" Eddie leaned forward from the table he was sitting on, as they took their seats along the long bench.

"Busy." He'd learned a long time ago that the less he tried to explain about himself, the more mysterious and cool he became. It was a win-win situation, since he couldn't summon much enthusiasm trying to get to know people he had nothing in common with who would be in his life for a few weeks at best.

"Freak alert," Tessa shouted, from the end of the table. Dean looked up and saw the girl from his English class walking past them. She was again covered head to foot in clothing that was on the big side for her, her arms wrapped around several books, pressing them to her chest, her hair falling forward under the hooded top, hiding her face. He felt a spasm of distaste for Tessa, for the casual cruelty that seemed to have no other point than a momentary alleviation of boredom.

Marilyn got up and walked along behind the girl for a few steps before hooking her foot through the girl's legs, bringing her down. Dean launched himself off the seat toward them, before he'd realised what he was going to do, grabbing Marilyn by the arm, yanking her back.

"Ow!"

"What the hell did you do that for?" he asked, his face taut with anger. She pulled her arm away from him, rubbing where his fingers had bitten into it.

"What the hell do you care?" she snapped back at him, turning and stalking back to her friends.

His mouth compressed tightly as he swallowed his first reactive comment and turned back to the girl, picking up the books, and helping her up.

"You alright?"

Through the long curtain of her hair, she looked at him curiously, then nodded. "I'm fine." She glanced over her shoulder at the crowd on the tables. "Happens all the time, I'm used to it."

He frowned, but she was walking away, hunched over her books, looking at the ground.

* * *

Sam found Ryan at recess. "Did your uncle develop the photos?"

"Yeah, they came out fine. Proof that they're in the Sound." Ryan nodded at him.

"Mission accomplished then."

"Yeah."

They walked along the path around the building, Sam thinking about the conversation of the day before.

"Your dad putting pressure on you to go to a good school?" Ryan asked, as if he'd been thinking of the same thing.

"No. He wants me to spend my life ..." he caught himself mid-sentence, looking away. "In … uh … the family … business."

"What kind of business?" Ryan sat down on a bench in the playground, pulling out a brown paper bag from his backpack and opening it.

"Uh … sales, kind of. A lot of travelling around." Sam sat next to him, hand diving into his bag for the apple that he put in every morning. "It's not that I … there are a lot of things I like about it, but it's not how I want to live."

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, exactly."

"What does your family want you to do?"

"Corporate law. My dad's a partner in a big firm," he snorted. "I think he has delusions that we'll take it over, make mega-millions … that deal."

"You don't like law?" Sam asked diffidently. He'd been thinking about law, fighting the fight from the courtroom instead of with guns and salt-rounds in the dark.

"You kidding?" Ryan turned to look at him. "It's the most fiddly, boring, wasteful, demeaning job out."

"It is?"

"You know what my dad spends most of his time doing? Figuring out ways so that his clients, who earn billions every year, don't have to pay tax. Or making assessments about which companies to buy, strip and sell off – just for the profit margin." He shook his head. "I like history, I like our history, this country's history, and the idea that people produce things, real things of value, not just rip every cent from destroying what other people have built up."

Sam looked across the playground. "That's pretty idealistic."

"My dad tells me I'm naïve. I know I'm idealistic. Someone has to be."

* * *

The demon blood changed something inside the genetic makeup of the children. John leaned on the table, staring down at the file between his hands.

Turned on a gene that was normally off, maybe. It didn't add anything and it didn't take anything away, he'd had Sam tested as soon as Jim had told him, and there was nothing physically different about his youngest son, not his blood, not his cells, not his brain. He'd done a huge amount of research into the paranormal, the fields of parapsychology and metaphysics, and he was satisfied with the evidence that people, the human species as a whole, had once had access to a number of mental abilities that had been lost over the millennia. It made sense, really. Isolated communities or tribes of people needed a way to communicate in conditions that were far more testing than they were now. They were virtually defenceless against the predators of those times. They had imaginations, that was what separated them from the rest of the animal kingdom. And those imaginations had been powerful. Not purely in terms of creativity, of invention, but in real terms of defence and attack.

Then the climate had changed, the planet had moved into the interglacial of the present, and humans began to form larger communities, began to grow their own food instead of having to hunt for it, developed language and writing of a more sophisticated nature – and the abilities held in the brain and controlled by the imagination were allowed to atrophy, remembered only in the persistence of superstition and the desire to change the real world through the practice of magic.

He rubbed his knuckles over his face, leaning back in the chair. Whatever the demon's endgame was, when Sam turned twenty-three he would be in danger, and he might become dangerous. Three of the children who had been – infected – by the demon in 1973 had become insane when their powers had awoken. Two others, whose abilities had surfaced earlier, had also been psychotically affected. They were all dead now. He felt a chill through his body, ice water rising through his veins. He had to find a way to either stop it from happening to Sam, or to help his son cope when it did happen to him. He no longer thought that just killing the demon would change anything.

It was almost four by the time John looked at his watch again, and he stood up, swearing softly at himself for getting lost in the trail again.

* * *

"Dad said he'd be here at three, didn't he?" Sam looked up the road again. Dean nodded, leaning against the fence of the school.

"Yeah." He looked at his watch. It was three-thirty. "He probably got caught up in something. We should go."

"Alright." Sam picked up his bag and settled it onto his shoulder, glancing at his brother. "You have a falling out with your friends?"

Dean looked at him and shrugged. "They're not friends."

Something in his tone warned Sam against further questions and he fell into step next to him as they started to walk up the road that would, eventually, take them back to the house. Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his father's coat, thinking about what had happened that day.

Marilyn, Eddie, Tessa and the rest had looked at him as if he'd just dropped down from another planet when he returned to the table. He'd looked back at them, feeling the same way himself. All the schools they'd been to – and there had been a lot – were the same. Once you were out of the pack, you were a freak. He'd shrugged it off, feeling a momentary regret that he hadn't made it past second base with Marilyn, but with no other sense of loss. They were just kids, petty, mean sometimes, dumb sometimes, thinking about themselves mostly.

He'd walked away and felt their eyes on his back, heard the mutterings behind him. The bottom line was that he would leave, sooner or later, and it would be another memory, lost on the long road of memories of schools, towns, hunts, events that formed his life. He doubted he'd remember their names by next fall.

He hadn't been expecting the attack that had come after lunch though. The girls had done their usual routine, calling out to him when he'd walked past them, calling him freak and loser and the usual invective of high school kids without much imagination. But Eddie and Mark and Colin had actually blocked his way, standing in front of him, arms crossed, trying to force a confrontation. He'd looked at them disbelievingly, thinking at the time that if they'd had the slightest inkling of what he'd done, what he was capable of doing, they'd be running home to their mothers as fast as their legs could carry them. They didn't though. And it wasn't like he could tell them.

He'd stopped and waited for them to bring it on. Nothing had happened. After a few moments, they'd shuffled to one side and he'd kept on walking. The whole incident had been … weird. But he had a feeling it wasn't over. He'd been more careful when school let out, waiting for his brother, watching as they'd walked out, but again nothing happened. He wondered now if they had the balls to attack him, or if one of them had seen the long twisting scar down his arm at some point and decided that intimidation was better than action. The thought made him smile, at least.

They'd been walking along the side of the road for almost fifteen minutes when he saw the familiar, hunched over figure ahead of them.

"Hey!" he called out to her, getting a startled look from Sam. Dammit, he still didn't know her name. "HEY!"

She stopped and turned around, her feet moving again as she saw the two of them coming up behind, then stopping when she recognised him.

"Oh hey." She waited for them, looking curiously at Sam, then back at Dean. "Did you want something?"

"Uh … no." Dean glanced at Sam. "This is my brother, Sam."

"Hi, Sam."

"Hi."

"Sorry, I don't know what your name is." Dean tried to see past the locks of hair that fell over her face, past the shadow of her hood.

"Ruth." She smiled suddenly, lifting her head a little and pushing the hair back. "My dad was a fan of the Bible, not of the baseball player."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what to say to that. "I'm Dean."

"Yeah, I know."

He hadn't known that either. "Uh … how did you do in the test?"

She shrugged. "Pretty good, I think. I read the book yesterday, so it was all there."

Sam looked at Dean and then at the road. Dean nodded.

"We missed our ride, so we're walking." He took a step along the road, and Ruth fell in beside him.

"I walk all the time." She glanced behind them. "My mom … doesn't have time to drive me."

Sam walked a little faster, ahead of them. He wasn't sure why Dean had suddenly decided to talk to the one of the weirder kids at school, but from the look his brother had given him, he thought it was better if he distanced himself from their conversation.

"What do your parents do?" Dean asked her, wondering at the slight hesitation.

"My dad left a long time ago. My mom is an artist. She paints." Ruth seemed to hunch a little further, her shoulders rounding around the bag she carried in her arms. Beneath the short answers, Dean heard something else, an emotion he couldn't quite define.

"Yeah? So it's just you and her?"

"Yeah." She laughed softly, surprising Dean as the sound had no humour in it. "Just me, mainly. Mom is … kind of … driven."

He glanced sideways at her, suddenly understanding. "Our dad's like that."

She shrugged. "Next year I can do what I want to do."

He blinked. He hadn't thought of it like that. Next year he'd be eighteen. No more school. He'd be hunting full time with Dad. He'd been looking to that moment for years. Into his mind came the image of an endless empty road, with nothing on it but himself. He pushed the thought away.

"You all right, from before, I mean?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice soft, resigned. "I don't fit in here, I know that. I try and stay out of the way usually. Sometimes …" she stopped, rethinking her words. "It doesn't matter. I won't be here in a few more months."

Dean looked at her. "Those kids – they're assholes. Take it from me, I know. We've been to loads of schools, and they're all the same."

She turned her head. "I didn't say it before, but thanks for … um, saying something."

Dean shrugged. It hadn't been a deliberate thing, he'd reacted. His whole life had been about protecting those smaller, weaker than himself. Protecting Sam. Protecting people from the monsters in the dark. It wasn't something he thought about, or needed to think about. It just was.

"Dean, there's Dad." Sam pointed up the road unnecessarily. Dean could hear the growl of the Impala. He watched as the black car came over the small rise and pulled up beside them.

"Sorry, lost track of the time." John looked out the window. Dean nodded, turning to Ruth.

"You want a ride back to your place?"

She shook her head, stepping away, off the road. "No, I'll walk."

"See you tomorrow." He got into the car, lifting his hand. She watched as John turned the car tightly around and they headed back the way they came, then started walking again. Dean watched her in the side mirror until they turned the corner, unsure of what the feeling was that kept his gaze on her.

* * *

"I hate to be an alarmist, but there's a rumour going around that your brother is going to get his head kicked in after school," Ryan said in a low voice as he and Sam walked along the corridor to their lockers.

Sam looked at him. "Where'd you hear that?"

"All over." Ryan glanced behind them. "Because of the freaky girl."

"She's not a freak." Sam frowned at him. Ryan shrugged.

"I know that and you know that, but we don't make the rules, do we?"

"How many are going after him?" Sam stopped in front of his locker, twisting the combination lock.

"The last count was all of them, but I doubt that." Ryan waited, leaning up against the lockers alongside Sam's. "Maybe four or five will actually show up."

Sam nodded.

"You don't seem that concerned."

"I'm not." Sam pulled out the books for the next class, glancing at him. "But I'll tell him."

* * *

Dean found Ruth under the wide canopy of a tree near the gates of the school, a couple of hundred yards from an open stretch of ground where a bunch of the juniors were playing a game of baseball. She was reading, her head bent over her book. He walked over and sat down next to her.

"Hey."

She looked up at him, then past him, scanning the school grounds. "You shouldn't be here."

His mouth twisted slightly. "Why not?"

"Because they're already mad at you, for what you did. Are you trying to rub it in?"

"Maybe."

"Do me a favour, then. Don't use me." She closed her book, putting it into her bag and uncrossing her legs and rolling onto her knees. He reached out, his fingers closing around her wrist.

"I'm not using you." He looked up at her, unsure of what to say. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Looking down at her wrist, at his hand still holding it, she didn't respond. Her gaze lifted to his face. "About what?"

He shrugged. "About anything."

She sank back down, ducking her head and peering through her hair. "You've got my attention."

"Why do you hide like that?" He let go of her wrist, and moved his hand to push back her hood, push aside the hair from her face. She moved away, shifting fast, almost flinching from him. He let his hand fall to his side.

"Because I don't want to fight," she said, making a small gesture with one hand. "When my dad left, all I did was fight, and it got me into a lot of trouble. So now I … disappear. When possible."

"Hiding doesn't solve anything."

"Neither does fighting it."

"LOOK OUT!"

Dean's head snapped around at the yell, and he saw the ball from the game across the field coming low, too late to do anything about it. Ruth's hand flashed up, catching it a couple of inches from her face. She pulled her arm back and flicked it back to the kid who'd come running over to them, the sideways throw perfectly accurate and obviously hard because Dean heard the crack as it smacked into the kid's leather glove.

He looked at her profile, his mouth open as she compressed her lips to hide a smile.

"That was impressive."

The laughter came out as a snort. "I have good reflexes."

"Yeah," he said, looking back at the kid who'd caught the ball. "I noticed that."

"Dad might have named me after the baseball player." She turned her head a little, enough for him to see a small, wry smile curving her mouth.

Dean grinned. "When did he notice?"

"When I was about two. Just walking." She relaxed suddenly, shaking her hair back from her face.

He looked at her for a long moment, not sure why he was sitting here, what he wanted from the girl who seemed to be more of a bundle of contradictions than he'd thought. The hiding she did physically was echoed in the way she was, he realised, not volunteering much.

"Where are you going, when you've finished school?"

"I don't know." She picked a blade of grass, chewing on it absently. "Maybe Los Angeles. I'm not sure yet."

"Are you going to college?" It felt very strange, asking someone this stuff. He felt as if he were straddling two worlds and right now neither felt comfortable.

"I've got a full scholarship to UCLA if I want it." She threw the grass on the ground and drew her legs up, resting her arms over her knees. "Not sure if I do."

Dean made a mental note to ask Sam about that. "What do you want to do?"

"Not sure about that either." She looked over toward the school buildings. "Is that your brother?"

Dean turned his head. "Yep."

They waited for Sam to cross the grounds. He looked down at them, his expression worried.

"There's a rumour going around the school that some of the seniors will be waiting for you after school."

Dean's mouth curved into a slow smile. "Yeah, I heard that too."

Sam looked at Ruth, then back to his brother. "You want to bug out early?"

"Hell, no." Dean leaned back and stretched, his smile widening as he propped himself casually on his elbows.

"Dad'll kill you if you get into a fight." Sam recognised his brother's mood. He was looking forward to the action.

"Better not tell him then, huh, Sam."

* * *

John sat on the porch and stared out over the marsh, across the Sound. The breeze had freshened a little, bringing the strong smell of salt to the land. Far to the east, over the Banks, he could see a line of grey cloud on the horizon, forerunner of the storm forecast for the night.

He picked up the glass of whiskey from the small table beside him, sipping it as he thought about how he could protect his son.

He could already feel Sam pulling back, pulling away – from him, from their life. He knew it wasn't what his youngest son wanted, moving from place to place, never having friends, never having a home, but there was nothing he could do about it. Over the past few years he'd been given warnings twice now, that Azazel was looking for Sam. Both times he'd packed up and left the place they'd been immediately, once in the middle of the night, because he was afraid that to linger even a few hours would mean a confrontation with the demon that he wasn't ready for, that he would fail and that he would lose his son for good.

Demon-hunting without Bill was hard. He was getting little information and it was becoming increasingly dangerous as more and more of the hellspawn seemed to know his name, know about him and his boys.

There was training. They'd have to train harder now, now that they were old enough to understand what that meant. But training wouldn't keep him safe, not entirely, not from himself.

He'd thought long and hard about telling Sam what he feared. Telling him about the abilities that would rise. Helping him to understand them, perhaps, to research them and find people who had them, even in the smallest degree. He'd rejected that possibility for the moment – Sam was only fourteen. He didn't have many years left just to be himself, just to be a kid, but he'd be damned if he'd take away those few and subject the boy to the terror of what he might turn into, what he might become.

He put the glass down and put his face against his hands. There was nothing, really, he could do but what he'd been doing. Training. Moving. Hunting. Learning. Teaching. Hoping that when the time came, they would be together, and they would be able to fight the demon together, as a family.

* * *

"Sam, go home." Dean stood on the oval, his jacket hanging over the fence.

"No." Sam looked up at his brother, seeing a wild, reckless light in the green eyes. "No way."

"I'll be fine. Go home and keep Dad occupied."

"I can't get home without you anyway." Sam looked at the Impala, parked beneath the trees on the other side of the road.

"Fine, then wait in the car." He turned and looked down at the younger boy. "I don't want to have to worry about you."

"You don't have to worry about me. I'm not the one who's in trouble."

"This isn't trouble, believe me." He turned his head to watch a group of the seniors walking out onto the oval. The first three were walking cockily toward him. Behind them, there were two or three others. As they got closer, the leading three moved apart, and he felt the air run out of his lungs as he saw Ruth struggling between two more.

"Thought you might want your freak girlfriend to see this." Eddie turned his head and spat into the grass.

"Let her go. She has nothing to do with this."

Mark laughed. "She's the reason you bailed on us, Dean. She has everything to do with this."

"I didn't bail on you, and I would've done the same thing for anyone. You're cowards, picking on people who are weaker."

Sam had backed away to the fence. He knew that Dean needed room for that many. He stayed inside the fence, though. You never knew in a brawl when a handy foot or fist might be needed.

"Well, she's staying to watch you go down," Eddie said, moving slowly around to Dean's left. "Maybe you'll get lucky and she'll kiss it all better when you're all busted up."

Dean waited, light on the balls of his feet, his weight balanced. Staying in one place too long always made him restless, and he was looking forward to what would happen next, energy crackling through his nervous system, his mind quiet and ready and alert.

He watched Mark moving to his right and repressed a smile. Jack was coming straight for him. The three of them were telegraphing their intentions, typical of amateurs. _Try training with my Dad for a few weeks, boys and see what you think of that_, he thought, the mocking humour bringing a small, unconscious smile to his face.

The rush came as expected, all three breaking into a run about ten feet from him. He waited until Jack was just on the edge of his reach and stepped forward fast, the heel of his hand slamming into Jack's solar plexus, driving the wind from his diaphragm, and he dropped to a perfectly balanced crouch and swung his leg around. Jack fell to the ground with a thud, the back of his head bouncing off the soft green grass. Eddie and Mark lost any semblance of balance as they veered to avoid each other and Dean's leg scythed around again, catching the back of Eddie's knees and sending him into a long flying dive, that ended with a graceless faceplant into the ground.

Dean sprang up, moving left fast now, to face Mark. The other boy threw a look at his friends on his ground and began to back away, slowly at first, then faster as Dean kept coming.

"Hold on to this bitch, Matt." Colin let go of Ruth and started across the oval, toward Dean and Mark.

Ruth felt her right arm released and swung around the other way, her elbow raised, the point hitting Matt precisely on the point of the jaw. He dropped to the ground without a sound. She saw Sam watching her and nodded to him. He smiled back and raised his fist.

Hiding wasn't working, she thought, her attention on the boys moving around Dean on the oval. Maybe it had never worked. She pulled her coat off, dumping it on the ground. The hooded sweater came next, then the long woollen sweater. Underneath she wore a plain long sleeved shirt tucked into the army pants that although too big, were at least the right length for her legs. She pulled her hair back, tying the long length into a knot and trotted out behind Colin.

"Hey, zit-face!"

Colin turned around fast, his eyes widening as he saw the tall, slender girl jogging toward him. For a second he didn't realise who it was, he'd never gotten a good look at her face before. By the time he did realise, she was within reach. He stepped forward and swung his fist in a big round haymaker. Ruth ducked easily under it, coming into his body and twisting her hip as she put her weight behind the fist that cannoned into his ribs. He staggered back with a loud grunt, and Dean turned his head slightly to see what had happened behind him. Mark pulled the polished wooden handles of a pair of nunchaku from the back of his pants. He'd gotten them the previous year and still hadn't figured out how to swing them without knocking himself out, but he sure could use them to hit someone from behind, he thought.

"DEAN, LOOKOUT!" Sam saw the sticks in the other boys' hand as he came up behind his brother.

Dean's head snapped back as Mark swung, the solid wooden handle hitting his cheekbone instead of the back of his head. He shook his head, wincing as the bone ached, and swung around.

Behind them, Colin rushed at Ruth. She waited on her toes until he was almost within reach of her, then pivoted away, her foot flashing out to hook his shins as he passed by her. He hit the ground at speed, and rolled over, his chest heaving as he tried to get his wind back.

Dean didn't wait for Mark's next decision, he took a long stride into him, forearm blocking the half-assed punch the other boy threw at him, and drove his fist into Mark's stomach. The air rushed out of his mouth and he sat down suddenly, unable even to cry out as he landed on his tailbone. The nunchaku fell to the ground, and Dean picked them up, turning to see Colin struggling to his feet, his face red with rage, behind Ruth.

"Ruth! Catch!" Dean tossed the nunchaku to her, hoping her reflexes were as good with multiple objects as they'd been with the ball. She reached and plucked them from the air, turning in the same movement, one stick gripped low, the other spinning on the end of its rope, as Colin pulled up, his eyes fixed on the spinning wooden baton.

"I don't really know anything about using these," Ruth said conversationally, as she switched hands, passing the sticks from one hand to another, the free end spinning this way first, then that, "But I've watched a few Bruce Lee movies, and I think I could probably crack your skull with them."

Dean touched his cheekbone gingerly as he watched the sticks flying between her hands, holding back a laugh as he saw the expression on the bigger boy's face. Damn, she was fast.

Colin was backing away, and Ruth walked after him. He turned to run, and the nunchaku suddenly flew through the air, the rope catching the back of his ankle and the sticks crossing over in front of it, his feet tangling in them and bringing him down.

Sam looked around the oval. Quite a few students had shown up, despite it being after four now. He saw Ryan over in the crowd and grinned suddenly at the boy's exaggerated wink. He might not want to work in the corporate world, but the guy had a real feel for publicity, he thought.

Ruth waited for Dean and looked at his cheek, already swelling. "That looks sore."

"It's fine, just a bump." He looked behind them, Eddie and Mark were still lying on the ground, Colin sitting up, his face half-covered in dirt, Matt was lying still beside the bench where Ruth had left her coat and sweaters. Jack was walking slowly off the oval, his arm over his stomach.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asked him, walking over to get her clothing.

"My dad. He was a Marine, now he … keeps in training, trains me and Sam as well." Dean walked beside her. "What about you?"

She laughed softly. "Didn't I say I used to fight all the time? I got interested in martial arts in my sophomore year. Did pretty well, having fast reflexes, fast reactions. I had to stop competition though because my balance got a bit shot when I got my growth spurt. Arms and legs were too long for my body. That's when I started hiding. I was convinced I looked like an octopus for awhile."

She picked up the pile of clothes and put them over her arm. Without them, he could see that she was tall and lanky, but graceful with it, her movement sure and economical, the long limbs giving an impression of a sinuous ease with herself. A line from a movie he'd seen a few years ago popped into his head. "You're from the high plains, that's all."

The beautiful smile appeared without warning. "I love that movie."

"You gotta be home any time soon?" He turned for the car, waving at Sam.

"No, not really."

"Good."

* * *

Sam and Ryan sat on the western side of the porch, drinking sodas and playing cards.

"You going to follow your old man's plan?" Sam asked, laying another card onto the pile.

"Probably." Ryan sighed and checked his hand. "I don't know if I've got what it takes to just throw it back in his face. He means well, but he doesn't see that it's my life.

Sam nodded, picking up a card and laying another one down.

"What about you?" Ryan looked at him.

"I don't know. We're not getting along all that great right now. Maybe that'll change. Maybe not."

"He seems like a great guy." Ryan looked down at his cards. "Better than my Dad."

Sam laughed. "Your dad's a corporate pirate, mine's a drill sergeant. He's all right, but he wants it done his way."

"Don't we all?"

* * *

Dean and Ruth walked along the narrow sandy path through the marsh grass toward the beach.

"What's there to do here in winter anyway?" Dean asked. Ruth glanced back at him.

"This sort of stuff, mainly. After a storm, Mom and I used to walk down to the beach and look for stuff that had been washed in from the Atlantic. The Banks protect this coast really well, it's not like further north where it's all open, but there's still interesting stuff."

He had a feeling he and Sam would be running along a lot of the coastline over the next couple of months, Dad had made a couple of pointed comments about staying fit, staying sharp.

They reached the sand and turned right, walking southwards along the empty beach.

"Are you okay with giving up the chance to hang with the cool crowd?" she asked him curiously. He laughed, throwing his head back.

"Yeah, I can live with that."

"Interested in being friends with a freak?" She felt her chest tighten as the words came out. She hadn't realised how much she wanted to him to say yes.

"You're not a freak, Ruth." He looked at her and up the beach again.

"Sure I am." She gave him a half-smile.

"Yeah? Well, I'm a freak too then." He thought about that for a moment, realising that it was true. He had absolutely nothing in common with any of the kids he'd met in school.

She smiled, turning her head away from him, looking over the water. They walked in silence for a while, content to just be. When they came to the next point, they stopped, watching the sea, watching the birds wheeling above a school of fish off the shore.

"What do you want, Dean?" Ruth put her hands in her pockets, regretting not having her coat now as the cool, damp air chilled her.

"What do I want?" He looked at her, saw the goosebumps on her skin and shrugged out of the big leather jacket, slinging it over her shoulders. She pulled the edges together, smelling the old leather, and gun oil, faint scent of whiskey and the individual scent of the boy walking beside her. It was comforting.

"I just want to be with my family. I don't mind our life, even with all the moving around, all the … everything else. I know that Sam's not happy with the way we live. That he'd rather it was all different. That stuff doesn't matter as much to me, so long he and Dad are around."

She smiled, a bit sadly. "That must be great, being so close."

He looked at her in surprise. "I guess so. Sometimes it doesn't feel like we're that close, but I guess, yeah, we are." He watched his boots pressing into the sand, the soft dry granules half-filling the prints when he lifted them. "That's all I need."


	18. Chapter 18 No Harm, No Foul

**Chapter 18 No Harm, No Foul**

* * *

_I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each others dreams, we can be together all the time._

_~ Hobbes_

* * *

_**1997. January 24. Cooper, Texas.**_

John's eyebrows shot up as he read the thermometer. He looked down at his son, lying on his side in the single bed, breathing heavily through his mouth, eyes closed.

"Well, you're in here for the day, at least." John turned away, putting the thermometer down and going to the fridge. He pulled the door open and looked inside. A dried up piece of cheese and a six pack sat on the bottom shelf.

"We'll pick up some stuff for you." He looked around the motel room. "Better get a couple of extra blankets out."

Sam nodded and opened the linen closet, pulling out two thin blankets from the sparse supply it contained. He put them on the end of Dean's bed.

"Try and sleep, Dean." John looked back at the bed from the door. "We won't be long."

Dean started to nod then stopped, the motion caused pain to crash chaotically around his skull. He'd been fine last night, just a sniffle. Now it felt like someone had stuffed him full of paste and nitro-glycerine, with every movement agony, his head so blocked he could barely breathe and his body switching from hot to cold like a defective air-conditioning unit.

He heard the door close and reached for the box of tissues that had spent the night beside the bed, pulling a couple free as he once again tried to clear the blockage in his sinuses. Aside from emitting a sound that would have cleared the shipping channels along Nova Scotia, nothing else happened.

"Arrrr-ckkk." His throat was full of mucus and that wasn't clearing either.

And today he turned eighteen, finally hitting the bigs, the majors, and no one had even noticed. He rolled carefully onto his back, almost gagging as a fresh flow of liquid snot trickled down his throat, then tipped onto his other side, trying to keep his head as still as possible.

He'd had less pain from the damned wendigo.

He felt the pressure ease from one side of his head to the other as the mucus, under the force of gravity, shifted slowly in his sinuses. Lying very still, he kept his eyes closed and waited for sleep.

It wasn't like their family were big on birthdays – or any other kind of milestone that marked the passing of the years, for that matter – but this was one of the important birthdays, and he couldn't believe that Dad had forgotten, or that _Sammy_ had forgotten. Sam _never_ forgot birthdays.

They were close to the end of the case, and it had been a bitch of a case, too many leads to follow and all going in different, screwed up directions. He knew his father just wanted to put this one to bed and get going, get back to the demon hunt that was consuming him more and more.

But he turned eighteen today. _Eighteen_, for Christ's sake!

He shifted slightly, pulling the covers more tightly around himself as his body cooled, the earlier sweat chilling on his skin. Starting to shiver, he hunched into himself, drawing his legs up and tucking his arms tightly against his chest.

When he'd turned sixteen, they'd been in Minnesota. He'd still been recovering from the wendigo attack, still weak and easily fatigued, even after a couple of months of rest. He'd woken up that morning to find a bunch of presents lying on the end of his bed, his little brother hovering next to him, his father making pancakes and waffles. Sam had invited a few of the kids from school over in the afternoon, and yeah, well, it had been a party, there was no other word to describe it. He'd felt uncomfortable, being the centre of attention. There were times he liked being noticed, and there were times he didn't. That was one of the times that he didn't. Sam had spent _weeks_ planning that sucker.

He was getting colder, he realised, his teeth beginning to chatter involuntarily. He was going to have to reach down to the end of the bed and get the extra blankets but he couldn't move. He couldn't even think of moving, exposing his skin to the air, getting colder than he already was. He closed his eyes more tightly, wondering where the hell Sam and Dad were, why they hadn't come back with food, drugs and some tender friggin' care here.

* * *

"Don't touch _anything._" John said to Sam as they entered the warehouse. Sam nodded, following his father between the tall stacks of crates and boxes, shelving and machinery. Sam held the double-barrelled shotgun, stock loosely cradled under his arm. It was a precaution only. Their target today was inanimate but extraordinarily evil.

Something nagged at his mind, something he'd forgotten, and he had a feeling it was important. It didn't seem to be related to the case, and he pushed it away, wanting his concentration on what they were doing.

"How are we going to find it in this?" He asked his father in a low voice, waving his hand around the huge building.

"With this." John pulled out the EMF and switched it on. "Should get a distortion in the normal fields if we get near it." The gadget hummed softly, the tone soft and steady.

* * *

The cold had gone. He was starting to warm up again. And his head was pounding again. Dean unclenched himself and carefully moved his legs to the edge of the bed. He was thirsty. Very thirsty.

Sitting up was a bitch. He hunched over, very still, trying to stop the room from bulging in and out in time with his pulse. The sink was just there, not more than fifteen feet from him. It just _looked_ like the other side of the world. _Slow … and … steady_, he told himself firmly. _Just real slow, no sudden movements, smooooooooth_.

Getting to his feet proved to be more difficult, the increase in altitude magnifying the pressure in the sinus cavities of his skull. He squinted as pain leaked through his eyeballs, and heard his breath rattling like a whole heap of maracas in his chest and throat.

Once he was actually on his feet, it was a bit easier. He shuffled along slowly, feeling his body temperature increasing as he went. By the time he was halfway across the width of the room, he was sweating, and the mucus seemed to have thinned out a bit because his nose was running like a tap, dripping down his lip and onto his clothes. He wiped at it repeatedly with no real effect. He reached the sink, leaning against the edge of the counter in relief, fatigue bleeding out the strength in his muscles, making them shake and tremble like some old gal's. Snorting out the excess snot into the sink renewed the pounding on the inside of his head. The tap was difficult to turn on, his fingers spasming slightly as he tried to tighten his grip on it, the muscles of his forearms quivering with the effort.

Eventually the water came out, clean and cold, and he leaned forward to put his mouth under the flow, eyes closing in bliss as the icy water took the heat from his cheeks as well. Maybe he could stay here, until Dad got back, just letting the water run over his face, drink a little when his mouth got dry again … not even think of the return trip to the bed.

He never got sick. Well, hardly ever. He could count the times he'd been really sick on the fingers of one hand. With a couple of fingers left over. Headaches, yeah, he knew about those. But flu? Common cold? Chicken pox? Nah … not him. Sammy had caught everything as a kid, and had nursed colds through most winters and the occasional summer. But him? No way, he was too damned tough to get anything as trivial as a cold.

Looked like the bugs had been saving something special for him, he thought tiredly. If this was a _common_ cold, half the world's population would have been dead by now.

Reaching for the tap, he managed to get it twisted it mostly off. It was still dripping, but he couldn't turn it any tighter. The headache had receded with the cool of the water and he became aware that he was actually hungry. No, not hungry. Very hungry. Starving, maybe. He looked at the fridge, knowing there was nothing in there. He'd looked in it last night. The beer was tempting – weren't you supposed to drink a lot of fluids if you got sick? But he needed something with a bit more substance in his stomach. It didn't feel so good right now. Probably because of the quantities of greenish fluid that'd trickled down his throat while he'd been prone. The thought made his stomach turn over, slowly.

He looked at the door of the room, almost the same distance from him as the goddamned bed. There was a store, at most a block down the street. He could make it. He could get some food and some Tylenol, and he'd be able to sleep. He straightened up a little, slowly, warily, feeling only a tightness across his forehead. He could do this. He could make it. He was still sweating, he could feel the back of his shirt sticking to his skin, but the whole temperature roller coaster seemed to have stabilised. He looked at his jacket, hanging from the back of the chair. He was too hot to even think about it.

The slow, painful shuffle across the room to the door kept his internal temperature rising. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, the idea of returning to the bed for the tissues ludicrous. He was careful to use the other sleeve to wipe the sweat that was beading on his face.

When he opened the door, the light hit his eyes like spears, and he turned his head away, narrowing them to slits to look out. Sunshine flooded the quiet street, the young evergreens along the grass strip providing small puddles of shade along the sidewalk. He could see heat shimmering off the asphalt, and hesitated. It's January, he told himself, just a sunny morning, he thought, it's not even eleven yet. Just because it looks like the depths of the Sahara out there doesn't mean it is.

Dean pulled the door closed behind him and stepped out onto the black surface of the parking lot. Heat radiated up from the ground at the same time as it beat down on him from the empty pale blue sky. His mouth was dry. His eyeballs felt dry. He bent his head, hawking up and spitting to clear his throat. At least the stuff was moving now.

* * *

The box was in the far corner, of course. Innocuous and unremarkable, about the size of a hat box, it'd been poorly and hastily constructed, the wood already splintering. It was neatly stacked between a stencilled tea chest and an old metal steamer trunk. The EMF warbled obligingly as they'd approached it and John pulled out the hessian sack, handing the gadget to Sam.

He watched his father as he pulled out two lengths of silk, one white and one black, wrapping the box carefully in the white silk before picking it up and doing the same thing again with the black silk. He took a silver cord from his pocket, and tied the wrappings firmly around the box with it, the put the box into the sack.

"Silk damps down the power," John explained briefly to Sam, taking the EMF from him once he was done. He ran the device close to the sack, but it was no longer showing any readings. "So, on the off-chance that the damned thing was sending anything out to people, calling them to open it for example, it won't be able to do that anymore."

Sam nodded, glancing at his watch. It was past one o'clock. He suddenly remembered his brother, lying back in the motel. "We need to get back to the motel, Dad."

John turned and looked at him, and belatedly realised what he was talking about. "Christ, yes."

He picked up the sack and strode down the aisle of crates. Dammit, how could he have forgotten?

Sam hurried along behind him, half-running to keep up with his father's impatient strides.

* * *

Dean could feel the heat rising through his body again, a conflagration that seemed to be cooking him from the inside out. The light was far too bright, and he held his arm over his face as he stumbled along the sidewalk. That store hadn't been this far, he thought, stopping next to an open bus shelter and leaning against the metal frame as he tried to draw in a deep breath through the toxic sludge in his chest. It had just been close, a half-block at most. He squinted down the length of the sidewalk, swearing softly because beyond the next few houses the street was increasingly blurred.

"You okay?"

The voice behind him shocked the crap out of him. He spun around – or tried to – gasping as the movement sent a violent and nauseating throb through his head. He put his hand up against his temple, leaning back against the shelter.

"Take that as a no."

He opened an eye, and saw a blurred outline in front of him. It took a step closer and began to resolve into a person.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, but you look really sick."

The voice was female, he thought, and young, and, judging from the soft drawn out vowels, a local. He rubbed his face with the heel of his hand, feeling it come away wet and opened the other eye cautiously. She stood in front of him, eight to ten inches shorter, dark brown eyes looking at him with concern.

"I'm fine..d," he croaked at her. "Jus' go…in' to store."

She shook her head. "You're not fine." She looked up the street. "Store's another half-block. You sure you can make it?"

Another half-block? How far had he come? He turned slowly to look back the way he came. The motel sign stood out garishly in the bright sunshine, maybe fifteen yards back. His shoulders slumped. She followed his gaze.

"You staying there?"

He lifted a shoulder helplessly. "Yeah."

"You need some help." It wasn't a question. And he was beginning to recognise that she might be right.

"What do you need from the store?" She stood in front of him, hands on her hips now, head tilted to one side.

"Food. Uh … Tylenol." He tried to remember what he'd come out to get. "Some kind of … you know … cold medicine."

"Alright. Stay here. I'll be right back." She trotted off down the sidewalk before he could say anything else. Stay right here. The thought made him roll his eyes. His current speed could be timed with a calendar, he wasn't likely to move without a very good reason.

He wanted to lie down, the bench beside the perspex shelter looked good, but he was worried that if he gave in to the impulse, he wouldn't be able to get back up again. The rumbling and bubbling noises from his chest sounded louder. And his nose was still running. And he was so friggin' hot! He opened his mouth to drag in more air. It felt as if his blood were boiling in his veins.

He heard the slap of sneakers on the sidewalk and turned his head to look. The girl was walking fast toward him, a bag in her hand. As she stopped next to him, he could see his reflection in the grubby perspex pane, the fever-brightness of his eyes, the red flush that rose from the collar of his shirt, the pinched whiteness where the skin stretched over the bones of his face, his freckles standing out against it.

"You need to get back to bed," she told him in a no-nonsense tone. He couldn't agree more. He didn't think he could move.

She'd thought of that, apparently. He felt his arm lifted, her hand gripping his as she slung it over her shoulder, taking some of his weight. He staggered along for a few steps and then found the rhythm of her shorter stride and they moved back up the street, toward the motel, in an ungainly gait.

Dean found his eyes almost closing as the responsibility for keeping upright and maintaining a direction was taken from him. He straightened a little as he slowly registered the panting beside him, the girl's knees starting to buckle under his weight.

"Not far now. Which room?" she said encouragingly as they crossed the parking lot. He frowned, trying to remember the room number. He could see the door, but couldn't make out the number on it.

"The green one." He pointed vaguely at it. She looked up the row of identical green doors along the parking lot and let out a gusty exhale against the side of his face.

"Twenty-three?" It seemed to be the one he'd gestured at.

"I think so." He stumbled as his feet actually refused to come up off the ground between steps.

"Where's the key?" she asked a moment later, and he looked up to see they were standing in front of the door.

He looked at her blankly. Key? Was there a key? A distant memory of a brass key, attached to a large wooden tag, sitting on the table inside, rose in his mind. He smiled sorrowfully at her.

"Left the key inside?"

She was quick. The thought swirled in his head and then vanished.

He felt the wall against his back as she ducked out from under his arm and pushed him against it. His legs were wobbly. They hadn't been this wobbly when he'd started out. What had he been doing? He looked down. The girl had put the bag down and was half crouched by the door knob, fiddling with it. He heard a click and smiled again, closing his eyes. Almost there.

"Come on, don't fall asleep just yet." She pushed the door open with her foot, grabbed the bag and hoisted his arm over her shoulders again. "You need something to take that fever down a bit, then you can sleep."

"'kay," he agreed amiably. He took a breath which turned into a coughing fit, shaking him as he was dragged inside the room. She propped him up as they crossed the room to his bed, easing him down, the coughing ending on a high wheezing gasp.

"Don't lie down."

He looked up her, bleary eyed again. Why the hell not? He was back. On the bed. He couldn't keep his eyes open.

She was miles away, standing by the tiny counter in the kitchenette, pulling stuff out of the bag. The paper bag made crackling noises that were echoing around in his head. He jerked back a little as that was overridden by a banging as she pulled a pot from the cupboard. He heard the tap gushing water and then she was back, a glass in one hand, two small white tablets in the other.

He picked up the tablets and put them in his mouth and let her guide the glass to his lips, swallowing automatically as the water tipped in.

"Okay, now you can lie down," she told him, her voice soothing. He tipped bonelessly to one side and fell onto the mattress. He felt her tugging at his feet, felt his feet suddenly cool as his boots were pulled off. Heat swamped him again as she drew the covers over him. He pushed at them ineffectually, and they were pulled up again. He was too tired to fight with them.

Something cold and soft and moist covered his forehead and he exhaled in relief as it drew the heat from his skin. The coolness took him down in a long, gentle spiral, away from the congestion, away from the pain, away from the fire that was burning him up.

* * *

They were in the drug store when Sam remembered. His face fell immediately.

"Dad."

"In a minute, Sam." John looked along the rows of cold and flu medications, trying to decide which fit Dean's symptoms best.

"Dad … do you know what today is?" Sam's voice was dull and low. John looked around at him, frowning.

"No idea. Haven't been keeping track of the dates."

"It's the 24th, Dad. January _24_."

"And that's supposed to mean …" John stopped suddenly, turning his head to look at his youngest son. "No."

_Goddammit!_ He'd had this all worked out, weeks ago, and the goddamned case had gone screwy and he'd forgotten. _Goddammit_. He'd left Dean alone in the goddamned motel, sick and alone, on this day, of all days.

_Goddammit_.

Sam was nodding, his face wretched. "He's gonna think we forgot."

John's mouth twisted. "We _did_ forget."

He shook his head. "Okay, go and find a cake, a big one. I'll finish here and meet you at the car."

Sam walked out of the store, and down the sidewalk, looking into the windows as he went. He'd had everything planned, weeks ago, and then the stupid case had come up, and he'd been so busy with trying to figure out what it was, figure out what they were dealing with that he'd completely forgotten. Dean wouldn't care, he thought, he'd hated his sixteenth birthday party, but Sam knew that he'd feel forgotten, no one had even mentioned it, not even a happy birthday this morning as they'd gone out. His brother could be a hard ass, but he still had feelings, like everyone else.

* * *

Dean woke to the smell of cooking, the fever gone, the headache subdued and distant. Turning over, he could see the girl standing next to the stove, humming softly to herself as she stirred something. The smell was tantalising familiar but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"Hey." He was surprised to hear the word come out with reasonable clarity.

She turned to look at him. "Hey. Feel like you can eat something?"

"Yeah." He started to sit up, and felt sweat breaking out on his forehead again.

"Stay there, you can eat in bed." She got a couple of extra pillows from the other bed, tucking them in behind his shoulders, then went back to the stove. He closed his eyes, astounded at his weakness and trying to ignore the little glow of warmth that the solicitous care had brought. He felt better now than he had all day.

"Okay, just take it slowly."

He opened his eyes and looked down into the bowl in front of him. It was filled with a deep red soup, thick with rice. Memory returned without warning and in full force and he felt his throat abruptly close, tears piling up behind his eyes. He looked at the bowl, struggling to keep it all back.

"What's this?"

"Tomato rice soup." She handed him the spoon. "My mother made it for me when I was sick, when I was a kid. It's good, just enough to keep you going without being too rich."

He dipped the spoon in, and lifted it, savouring the taste on his tongue. Memories in a can, he thought shakily, careening inside between happiness and despair. It was one of the few things he could remember, being sick, his mother being there, the strong smell of the tomato soup surrounding him, filling his belly with heat and a kind of transferred comfort.

She watched him eat for a moment, then turned away, going back to the counter. If she'd noticed his reaction, she was ignoring it. He liked that. The soup slid easily past the obstructions in his throat, settling warmly in his stomach without upsetting it. He liked that too. He finished the bowl, his eyes closed as he let himself pretend for a just a little while.

He felt the bowl being pulled from his fingers and opened his eyes reluctantly. She was holding a bottle of some kind of syrup, the dark red colouring leaving him in no doubt that it was probably cherry-flavoured. He looked at it warily.

"Supposed to dry everything out," she said, reading the label. "So you can sleep properly."

He nodded and took the required dose. Yeah, cherry-flavoured. Not that a single pharmaceutical company could ever actually produce anything that tasted like cherries. And why pick cherries anyway? Strawberries were just as nice and a lot easier to fake. Even raspberries were easier to mimic.

He watched her return the bottle to the counter, washing out the medicine cup. Long dark hair spilled down her back, old jeans were held up with a knotted leather belt, the too-big t-shirt tucked into them. He'd seen her before somewhere, he thought vaguely. She turned around and walked back to him.

"You got someone else to look after you?" She looked at the other bed in the room, the pair of larger sneakers by the door. "They gonna be back soon?"

"Yeah, I don't know when they'll be back." He leaned back against the pillows, feeling the pleasant drowsiness of a full stomach, the cold medicine kicking into his system.

"They shouldn't'a left you alone. You had a pretty bad fever." She frowned.

"They had to work." He felt the need to defend his father from the disapproval in her voice.

"Yeah." She looked down at him, lip curled, and he half-smiled as he felt the proprietary protectiveness coming from her. Chick takes care of him for an hour and she's all ready to defend him against his own family.

"Thanks," he said, shifting against the pillows behind him. "For, uh … helping me out."

She shrugged. "S'okay. I wasn't doing anything else."

He was too tired to think of any more conversation, eyelids drooping down, but his mouth opened anyway.

"They didn't mean to forget," he said softly. "Just the case got screwy …"

"Yeah, well John shouldn't have been working a case today. Especially not when you were sick and needed him."

The girl's voice became deeper, older and he frowned, trying to open his eyes. He managed to get them halfway open and stared as the girl's dark hair lightened and took on a wave; her eyes, staring at him, changed from dark coffee brown to blue; the slightly rounded face melted away, becoming patrician, with high cheekbones and a strong arch to the brows.

"Mom?" His breath kept slipping away from him, his chest hitching.

"It's your eighteenth birthday, Dean. You're a man now. He should have been here." She turned away and walked across the room. "He's missed most of the significant events of your life."

"Mom?" He struggled up, pushing back against the pillows, eyes wider now. She was silhouetted against the curtains of the window.

"If I'd known he was going to do this … turn you into hunters and leave you to raise yourselves …" she paused, looking down at her hands, clenched into fists. "I'd have let him die."

Dean stared at her. This had to be a … fever dream, or a hallucination, right? It wasn't real, wasn't actually happening. Mom had been gone for a long time. A long, long time. She wasn't here. Talking to him. Making him soup and giving him medicine and furious at Dad. That. Wasn't. Possible.

She turned and crossed back to him, crouching beside the bed, her hand rising to rest against his face. He could feel the cool skin of her palm against his cheek, the slight pressure of her fingertips on the bone of his temple. He could smell that light scent, a memory of her bending over him, tucking him into his bed, singing softly to him.

"He was supposed to look after you boys. Supposed to make sure that nothing happened to you, that you were safe. I trusted him to do it, Dean."

He couldn't say anything. Only stare at her, his heart beating way too fast, his breath ragged and shallow.

"Go to sleep, baby." She seemed to put away her anger, and her eyes softened, filling with love and worry for him. "You need to rest, to get better."

His eyelids fluttered shut as she leaned closer to him, lashes squeezing tightly together as he felt the soft press of her lips on his forehead, as cool and light as her hand.

"You've become a good man all on your own, and I'm proud of you, baby." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I love you, Dean … don't forget that."

He sensed her pulling away and he lifted his hand, reaching out for her, but it groped through nothing and darkness swirled around him as sleep pulled him down.

* * *

"Looks like he got out and down to the store." John looked from the kitchen counter to the anonymous lump sleeping under the heap of covers on the bed. The pot, half filled with soup, still stood on the stove, and the aspirin and cold medicine bottles stood on the counter with an empty glass.

Sam moved quietly to his bag, pulling out the present he'd wrapped three weeks ago, and putting it onto the table next to the big boxed cake. John glanced at it and nodded, going to his own bag and retrieving the two gifts he'd picked and wrapped before they'd started the job. He placed them with Sam's and walked over to the bed, crouching down next to his son and resting the back of his hand lightly against Dean's forehead. The fever had broken, his skin was cool and dry.

He sat down at the table, watching his eldest son sleep, aware of Sam behind him, moving around. He'd missed out on most of the significant events of their lives, been hunting, or emotionally absent or filled with his own frustration and fury and pain. Dean had grown up almost without him realising, and had done it mostly on his own, taking on responsibility for his brother, responsibility for himself, responsibility for their family.

Half of his memories of his son were those of Dean comforting him, when he'd returned from a hunt, or had made a new discovery, shattered and near to broken, his soul aching from loneliness and regret. Even when he'd been very young, Dean had been able to see into him, whenever he'd been near the end of his strength, and he'd come over and put his arms around him, telling him it was okay, that it would be okay. He shook his head slightly, it had always amazed him, but he'd never told his son how it had felt.

He'd watched, with a mixture of pride and embarrassment as the boy had copied everything about him, tried so hard to be more like him, tried to think of what Dad would do, obeyed every order without question, and taught his brother to do the same, although Sam's wilfulness hadn't succumbed to the sibling pressure.

And he'd let him do it, let him mould himself into his father's image, without much thought on the matter, not considering that somewhere inside the boy was a person in his own right, one with courage and imagination and empathy that was being repressed and pushed down with his son's efforts to become someone else. He'd needed Dean to be his back up. To be his support. And that, he knew, was wrong.

His old leather jacket hung over the back of the chair next to him. Dean had begged for it when John had decided that it was getting too cracked and worn to wear all the time, and had replaced it with the army coat. It was too big for him, even now, the ends of the shoulders hanging down his son's arms, but it would fit soon enough. He wondered if he should've just tossed it straight away; never let his son have it. He didn't know what that would have achieved, other than his son having to pick out something of his own.

In some ways he understood Sammy better than his oldest son. His youngest was straightforward, yielding sometimes but always fighting back under the pressure of the discipline in their family. Dean was different; he couldn't predict him as easily because he wasn't sure who the boy was, at his core. And that lay directly on him, because he hadn't taken the time to know him, had accepted the unquestioning obedience and love he saw every day and left it at that.

He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly, scratching softly through his beard. Was it too late now? Too late to help his son learn who he really was? Was it too late for both of them, trapped in a dynamic of captain and soldier, where anything that strayed from the discipline of giving and obeying orders was regarded by Dean as something suspect, something that worried him. It had been a long time since he'd seen delight in the boy's deep green eyes when he'd been praised for something. Now he would catch a flash of happiness, followed by embarrassment and the characteristic ducking of his head, a brushing-off motion that could have indicated acknowledgement, or doubt or straight out disbelief.

Dean stirred under the blankets and John turned to Sam. "Sammy, we forgot sodas, could you go and get some from the store?"

Sam looked from him to Dean and nodded slowly. "Sure."

He moved the chair over to the bed as the door closed. He saw Dean's head turn, his eyelids lift slightly as sleep retreated. Saw the glimmer of green eyes between the half-closed lids.

"Hey."

Dean shifted, rolling over and opening his eyes, a frown creasing his forehead as he tried to remember.

"Mom … where's Mom?" the boy's voice was hoarse. John felt a flutter of fear in his stomach. How bad had he been? _Bad enough to see his dead mother_.

"Hey buddy, take it easy." He leaned closer to the bed, putting his palm against his son's forehead. "You were pretty sick, I guess."

Dean looked past him, his eyes searching around the room before finally returning to his father's face.

"I … uh … saw …" his words trailed away and his father saw him push whatever memory he was looking at away. Nodding, he gently squeezed Dean's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry that I wasn't here to look after you, Dean, sorry that I … forgot what day it was."

His son looked into his eyes for a moment, then ducked his head. "S'okay. I'm fine."

John smiled as he felt tears pricking behind his eyes at the discomfort he could clearly see on the boy's face. It was this moment, he thought, that he usually let it go, accepting the half-lie because it was more expedient than trying harder.

"Yeah, I know you are, but I'm sorry. I fucked up. I shouldn't have left you here."

Lifting his head slowly, Dean searched his father's face for what that meant. The memory … or hallucination … of his mother's anger came back to him briefly and he shivered, caught between her unearthly visit and his father's unexpected concern.

It'd been after the shtriga attack. After the way his father had looked at him as he'd held Sammy close. He'd trained himself not to want moments of love and care from his father, had trained himself to doubt them, to believe that when they came, they were said from duty, that they had no place in the fight they were both in, that being obedient was more important than being loved.

He wasn't sure exactly when he begun to realise it, but it was there now, had been for a while, the knowledge that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't really be the son that his father needed, someone who always had his Dad's back, would always be strong enough and smart enough to keep him safe. He knew he wasn't strong enough, or smart enough, or brave enough, knew that he had failed before and he would again, he'd see that flare of disappointment in his Dad's eyes and it would only confirm all the things he thought.

Now, though, he couldn't see anything but love, edged with something else, something that looked like concern or sorrow.

"You've grown into a good man, Dean," John continued quietly, trying to find the words that would get through, that would get past the doubt he could see on Dean's face, shadowing his eyes. "I couldn't have wished for a better son, I'm proud to be your father."

Dean looked away, staring at the cheap, scratchy blanket that covered him. He could hear the emotion in his father's voice, could see it in his expression. He wanted to believe, so badly, but he couldn't accept the words. They didn't mesh. They didn't change anything. He tried, he did, to be the son that John could say those words to. He just knew that he wasn't. He would never admit to it, not to his father, or his brother. He would never give up trying to be that man, but that didn't really help.

John watched the conflict on his son's face and felt his heart contract further. He wasn't getting through. He saw the hope and a flickering, fragile belief disappear under something else, something that rejected it. Leaning forward, his fingers curved around the big muscles of his son's arm, squeezing tighter.

"Dean – believe me, believe what I'm saying. Please."

Dean's eyes snapped up to his, shock bleeding the colour from his face.

"I'm proud of you," John told him, hitting every word hard. "I love you."

Dean felt the foundations he'd created shake, then crack.

He saw the seriousness in his father's face, knew that look, that look that said _believe what I'm saying, it will save your life one day_. He couldn't tell himself this time that Dad was being a dutiful father, or that he didn't really mean what he was saying. There was nothing but honesty in his father's eyes, a painful, sorrowful honesty.

He couldn't get any air, couldn't breathe. Elation and fear, joy and doubt, hunger and pain and happiness were a confused tangle in his mind, in his heart. And the small voice in his head, that sometimes sounded like Dad's, sometimes like someone else, sometimes just like himself, that told him he was a frightened, dumb coward, was silent.

Sam opened the door, walking in with two bags held in his hands. He looked over at the bed and stopped, seeing his father and brother staring at each other intensely. He wasn't sure if he'd interrupted a fight or a moment of peace between them.

Dean looked past his father, to his brother, standing awkwardly by the door, his eyes wide, his expression cautious. He dragged control from somewhere deep and nodded to his father, swallowing hard to push the emotions away, and down, where he could keep them locked away, maybe to look at them later, pore over them like a hidden hoard of treasure, maybe to forget them.

John saw the nod and released the breath he'd been holding, letting his fingers relax their grip on Dean's arm. It wasn't much, against the years that had passed, but it was something. He'd gotten through at least once. He could do it again. It wasn't too late – for either of them.

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Sam said as John leaned back and Dean's gaze flickered between the two of them.

Dean's lop-sided smile was reassuring, more like the brother he knew than the one he'd seen a second ago.

"I would have bet money that you wouldn't forget today, Sam." Dean heard the slight break in his voice and cleared his throat, hoping it would sound like the cold.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I had it all planned but then …" he trailed off.

Dean shrugged, sitting higher on the bed. "Doesn't matter. I'm not real big on birthdays anyway." He looked at the table, at the box and the wrapped gifts sitting there. "Now, food and presents …"

Sam laughed, walking into the room and putting the bags on the counter. He picked up his gift and took it his brother.

"Hope you like it."

Dean looked up at him. "You know I will."

John looked from one to the other, and felt his fear subside, his worry ease. No matter what happened to him, no matter where they all ended up, they would be there for each other, he knew that they would always be there for each other.

"You know, I could get a lot of mileage from this," Dean said thoughtfully, looking from his father to Sam. "I mean, forgetting this birthday …"

John exchanged a glance with his youngest son, both of them knowing exactly what the other was thinking. They would be paying for this for a long, long time. Dean watched them, the faint smirk widening to a delighted grin.

"But I won't."

* * *

_Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we get it wrong. And sometimes when we're not trying at all, we get it right. All life is the experiences, the striving and the trying and the failing, and every person's character is formed from the way they deal with those experiences. In the end, it's not what you did, but how you felt that matters the most._


	19. Chapter 19 Consequences

**Chapter 19 Consequences**

* * *

_**January 19th, 1998. Lincoln, Nebraska.**_

John turned the key in the box lock and opened it, pulling out a handful of envelopes and a couple of small packages. He relocked the box and leaned back against the wall, shuffling through the mail. He stopped on one, tucking the rest under his arm as he ripped open the envelope and read the letter it held.

_Finally_. He chewed on the corner of his lip as he realised that he was not going to be able postpone the 'Frisco trip any longer, and driving to New York would take another two days. Well, that's what he had two sons for, he thought with a wry smile. At least Dean would be happy with the errand.

He walked back out to the street and got into the car, starting the engine and pulling out quietly. He was going to need another vehicle.

* * *

He opened the room door and walked in, dropping the mail on the table. "Dean?"

The boys came out of the room they were sharing. They both looked as if they were trying to think if they'd done anything wrong in the last few hours, their expressions wary. John winced inwardly. The last few months had been one disaster after another, and he wasn't surprised to see how cautiously they approached him; he was just disappointed.

He threw the keys to the Impala to his eldest son. "Happy Birthday for Saturday."

Dean caught them, his eyes lifting to his father's incredulously, his breath caught in his throat. Beside him, Sam started to grin.

"You mean it?" Dean looked down at the keys and back to his father's face.

"Of course I mean it. When do I _ever_ not mean it?" He shook his head, but smiled at the boy all the same. Maybe it would offset the fight last week.

He picked up the letter from the bookstore, and held it out. "I've got an errand I need you to run."

Dean walked toward him, taking the letter and reading it. "New York?"

"Yeah. I gotta get to San Francisco, talk to some people. Sam will come with me, you can pick up that book and meet us at Jim's." He didn't miss the look exchanged between the brothers, or the slump of Sam's shoulders as he realised he would spending a few days alone with his father.

"Questions?" John looked at them. They shook their heads.

"Good. Dean, get the car ready, we need to go find another vehicle." He turned away from them, picking up another letter and slitting it open, reading as he sat down at the table.

* * *

Sam followed Dean outside.

"I am not gonna survive a few days alone with Dad!" he hissed at his brother. Dean glanced at him, his hand already running gently over the hood of the Impala as he walked around to the driver's side.

"It's no big deal, Sam. Just do what he says, instead of arguing about it all the time."

He put the key in the lock and opened the door, sliding in behind the wheel, his eyes roaming lovingly over the dash. "You and me, baby. We're goin' for a ride."

Sam banged on the passenger window impatiently. His brother leaned over and unlocked the door.

"I can't help arguing. He expects me to do things without knowing why I'm doin' them, and without question!" Sam carried on the conversation without pause.

Dean looked at him, eyebrow raised. "That's how it is. There's no time to run a hunt by committee, Sam. Dad runs the show, we just have to hold our ends up."

"How can you think like that?" Sam smacked his fist against the seat.

"Hey! Don't hit her." Dean scowled at him. "I think like that because that's the way it is, Sammy. Dad's in charge."

"Dammit, Dean. You wanna be a grunt in the man's army?" He looked out the window, brows drawn in a scowl of his own. Why didn't his brother see that their father was moulding into them soldiers – no, worse, warriors, without minds of their own, or a say in anything or … dreams of their own.

Dean sighed. "Let's just say that I don't have a problem following orders that are keeping me from getting killed, okay?"

"We wouldn't be in danger if we had a normal life!"

"But we don't. So how 'bout you just drop it for a while?" He turned the key and closed his eyes as the engine rumbled into life, listening intently to it, his senses searching for anything that might indicate a problem. No, she sounded sweet and fine. He thought of all the miles to New York City and couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Sam looked at him in disgust. He knew exactly what his brother was thinking about, and it drove him nuts that he'd been ignored for a car. His father knew Dean too well.

He pushed open the door and got in the back as he saw his father come out of the room.

* * *

John walked around the black truck, eyes narrowed as he looked for any problems, anything that had been bogged over or was suspect. He and Dean had been over the engine, looking at the wear and tear, looking for fluid stains. Dean was now under it, checking the mounts, looking for signs that the vehicle wasn't as sound as it seemed.

The salesman followed John around at a respectful distance. "One owner, mileage is good."

John ignored him. The sticker price was more than he had. He stopped and turned to the salesman.

"I can give you cash if you knock off two g's off that price."

"Ah … well, that's a big discount, sir …" The salesman looked around nervously. John knocked sharply on the panel.

"What's it like?"

From under the engine, Dean had been listening. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, we'll have to replace the mounts, there's a couple of cracks here too, rail doesn't look straight – probably take a week or two," he said loudly.

"What kind of shit are you trying to push here?" John stepped forward belligerently. The salesman blanched slightly and stepped back.

"I'm not paying the extra. Take it or leave it." He looked at the guy, who was frantically trying to make a decision. "Come on, Dean. We'll find something better."

He strode around to the front, extending a hand to his son as he wriggled out from under the engine.

"Wait! Okay, okay, I'll get the paperwork." The salesman walked back toward the office, shoulders rounded in defeat.

John turned and leaned against the front of the truck, his voice low. "Mounts alright?"

Dean leaned next to him. "Yeah, replaced in the last six months."

His father turned his head to look at him. "No cracks, right?"

"Nope." He looked sideways at John, the corner of his mouth lifting. "All looks good."

"Okay."

* * *

Sam sat up against the passenger door, staring out the window as they drove back to the motel.

John glanced at him. "You okay, Sammy?"

"It's Sam, Dad. I'm not five." He hunched tighter.

"Sam, then."

"Yeah."

_Oh this was going to be good_, John thought. _Sixteen hundred miles with Mr Sunshine_. He didn't know – exactly – how he and his youngest had gotten to this point. They rubbed each other the wrong way a lot, but usually it blew over and was forgotten. The last few months it hadn't blown over, and it sure as hell hadn't been forgotten – by either of them.

He was relieved when he saw the motel's sign ahead, although judging from Sam's unclenching and the eager expression on his face, no more than the boy next to him.

Pulling up beside the Impala, he glanced at his oldest son, still sitting in it, and apparently talking to it, and killed the engine. Sam was out and in front of their room door before John could get out. He shrugged inwardly. They'd have the time to at least approach whatever was going on over the next two days.

He knocked on the Impala's window and jerked his head toward the room. Dean started, looking over at him. He nodded and slid reluctantly out of the car. The corners of his father's mouth tucked in as he turned away.

"Got work to do, Dean," he said over his shoulder as he walked into the room.

* * *

It took two hours to redistribute the contents of the Impala's trunk between the two vehicles, repack the canvas bags that held the essentials and get their stuff squared away. John used the opportunity to go right through the ordnance, noting what needed to be replaced or repaired, and by the time they were finished, all three were perfumed with solvent and gun oil. Dean repacked the trunk of the Impala as Sam loaded up the lockbox in the back of the truck.

"Ready to go?" John came back from the motel office, and got into the truck. Sam sent Dean a desperate look. His brother shook his head, walking around the car and getting in. He glanced across to the truck, but could only see his father's arm, leaning on the window. The Impala's low rumble was matched by the Sierra's, and he waited for John to reverse out first, following the truck out of the lot and onto the street.

Driving along O Street, Dean turned left onto the 34 to go east, and John continued on, merging right at the on ramp to the I-80 W.

* * *

_**I-80 E**_

Dean watched the traffic, his stomach fluttering and fizzing. It wasn't the first time he'd driven the Impala long distances on his own but somehow, now that she was his, it seemed like it. He couldn't relax enough to stick a tape into the deck, or watch the scenery racing past, he was too aware of the miles he had to cover, of the traffic to either side of him, of the sweet roar of the engine in front of him. It felt, he thought nervously, like a first date.

_Jesus, relax_, he told himself, looking at his knuckles standing out white on the wheel. _Think of something else_. He thought of his brother, in the truck with Dad for two days, and wondered if either would be alive when he got back. He didn't really understand Sam's rage at their father, although he could see that's what drove the disobedience, the questioning of Dad's plans, the stubborn wilfulness that sometimes got into him, forcing Dean into a position of mediator between the two people he loved the most.

He shook his head. Sam was different, he was smart, and he had a way with people that neither Dean nor John could emulate, or had the patience to adopt. He had a fiery temper, which he shared with his father, and an impatience for rules that he did not. It wasn't like he didn't understand the reasons for the things that Dad made them do, he'd been in the field often enough to understand them well. It was more like he just chafed at not being able to make his own decisions, Dean thought. Which was just stupid, because Dad had years of experience, years of knowledge behind him, all Sam had was teenage bravado. Which would get him killed in short order if that was all he was relying on.

His right hand scrabbled around in the box he'd put on the seat beside him. He pulled out a tape and glanced at it. It was a mixed tape he'd made last year. He popped the tape out of the cover one-handed and slotted it into the deck. He needed a break from his thoughts, and the traffic had thinned out enough that he could finally stop worrying about some asshole changing lanes into him without looking. The steely opening bars of _Wherever I May Roam_ filled the car and he settled back, fingers relaxed and light on the wheel, feeling a growing sense of contentment as the car barrelled down the highway comfortably.

* * *

_**I-80 West**_

John rubbed his forehead as they came up to the off ramp for North Platte. Three and a half hours of silence from the passenger seat was getting to him. They could use the fuel and some coffee and he realised that he just wanted to be out of the damned truck.

He pulled up at the station's pump and turned off the engine, looking at his son's profile.

"You want anything?"

Sam looked around and shook his head. What he wanted was not to be here. What he wanted was to either be with his brother, or be in school in some quiet town, able to get on with life. What he wanted was impossible.

John nodded and got out, filling up his lungs with the gasoline-tainted air and breathing deeply to loosen the tightness he could feel in his chest, shoulders and neck. He filled the big tank and walked into the store to pay for it and get some coffee, pulling out the latest credit card. He'd given Dean some cash and the other card with strict instructions on what constituted reasonable expenses – and what did not. He wasn't worried about it, Dean would cut his arm off before he did anything that fell outside of the rules they lived by.

Carrying the hot cup back to the truck, he wondered if he could be as sure of Sam in the same position. It wasn't something he needed to worry about for another year. His youngest wouldn't be able to get a licence until next May.

He got in and set the coffee into the holder. "Sam, you sure you don't want anything? Next stop probably won't be until Wyoming."

"I'm good." Sam stretched his legs out as much as he could. He'd been growing this year, and he was only an inch or two shorter than his brother now. Not as broad yet, Dean still had a weight advantage, but he was faster.

John nodded and they pulled out, rejoining the interstate and flipping their visors down as the sun crossed over the meridian.

"So." Sam turned to look as his father as they left the town behind. "What are we going to San Francisco for?"

John glanced at him, wary about the motivations for his son's sudden interest. "Uh … I've got to talk to some people there."

"What about?"

"A case. From a long time ago," he said, feeling his fingers tightening their grip on the wheel slightly.

"About what happened to Mom?" Sam watched his father's profile, seeing the twitch in the jaw muscle.

"Yeah."

"You gonna tell us about the research you've been doing?"

John could feel his son's eyes boring into him.

"No. Not yet." He flicked a glance sideways.

"Why not, Dad?" Sam frowned. "It's our past too."

"You're not ready yet," John said, as gently as he could, given that he could feel Sam edging around for an advantage.

"And who makes that decision? You?"

John heard the irritation growing in Sam's voice and clamped down on his reaction to it. So, not so much a conversation as an opening fusillade.

"Yeah, I'm your father, I make decisions like that."

"We're not kids anymore, Dad. It might be okay for Dean to just ask 'how high' but I need to know more." He fidgeted in his seat, feeling his frustrations rising again.

"No. You don't." John's voice became harder. "All you need to know is that I'm doing my job, and you need to do yours."

"My job? My job?" Sam sat up straight. "Is this what Mom wanted for us? To grow up like this?"

John closed his eyes briefly. How was it that the kid always managed to hit his most vulnerable spots? He wasn't going to fly into a rage, he wasn't. But he was going to shut him up.

"No. It's not. She didn't want to be murdered either," he said softly. "And I'll tell you what I didn't want – I didn't want to lose my wife. I didn't want to find out what's out there in the dark and how easily it can get to my family." He heard his voice rising but didn't care. Sam needed to hear this. "I didn't want to have to put responsibility on Dean's shoulders that he was too young to bear. And what I really don't want is for you to question my goddamned decisions all the time as if you know anything about what's going on!"

"Then _tell_ me what's going on! Why can't we help?" Sam barely took in the rest of what his father had said, reacting only to the reprimand.

"Because you can't." John looked at him. "And that's the end of it."

The last words held a warning. Sam chewed on his lip for a moment, then decided against pushing further right now. He turned away, back to the window. John exhaled and flipped up the console beside him. His fingers found a tape and he shoved it into the deck, turning the volume up as the music started. It was better than the laden silences, and a lot better than the intricate warfare that their discussions were turning into.

* * *

_**Toledo, Ohio**_

Dean stretched out in the bed, revelling in the silence. No Dad, telling him to get up. No Sam, complaining about what they were doing or not doing, that day. Just him, alone, the whole room to himself … he grinned. He glanced at the clock and the grin fell away as he realised he was up at the usual time anyway. Didn't matter, he decided, getting out of the bed and heading for the bathroom, it was still awesome.

An hour later he was back on the road, his stomach full of breakfast and coffee, fiddling with the radio to pick up local news. He found a station and listened as the news announcer almost gleefully described a twelve-car pile up on I-80 east, between Toledo and Cleveland, local authorities estimating the clean up at twenty four hours. Taking the next right, away from the interstate which would no doubt be backed up for miles in an hour or two, he took another right, putting him on a smaller road for Medina. He could pick up the 80 again after Cleveland.

The traffic was very light, at times non-existent, along the two lane blacktop and he relaxed, putting another tape in, pulling the visor down to cut the sun from his eyes as he headed east. He'd almost reached Bellevue when he saw a woman standing by the side of the road, her thumb out and her silhouette against the morning sun showing that she was well and truly pregnant. He looked in the rear-view mirror, but there were no other cars behind him, no other traffic at all on the road. Biting his lip as he approached, he debated the situation. He was on business. He shouldn't be stopping for anything. On the other hand … he sighed. He couldn't _not_ help. He didn't pick up hitchhikers normally, but this didn't look normal. He slowed the car and pulled over, just ahead of where she stood.

She picked up the suitcase beside her and walked toward the car, her gait a little ungainly.

"Hi, thanks for stopping."

Dean stared at her. She wasn't a woman; she didn't look more than fourteen or fifteen, at the most. He shook his head slightly, getting out of the car and walking around to the other side.

"No problem. Where're you going?" He picked up the suitcase, and put it into the back seat, opening the passenger door for her.

"New York, or wherever's nearest for you." She eased herself into the car, smiling back up at him cheerfully.

He closed the door and sighed, walking back around the car and getting in.

"Must be your lucky day. I'm going to New York." He started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

"No way!" She looked at him.

"Way." He muttered, turning the volume of the stereo down slightly.

"Well, that's just great." She grinned. "My name's Marcie. What's yours?"

"Dean." His gaze flicked to Marcie's face. "How old are you, Marcie?"

"Fifteen, in June," she said, shifting slightly in the seat and stretching out her legs.

"Uh huh. You got family in New York?" He hoped she was going to say yes, lots of family there, plenty of people to look out for her.

She shook her head, her hand sliding over the curve of her belly. "Sort of. This one's daddy's there. So we'll be a family."

"How come you're hitching?" He could feel his suspicions about the father of her baby rising already. "Why didn't your, uh, boyfriend come and get you?"

"Oh, Donny had to go to get work. He said he'd come back, but he's been real busy, so I thought I'd just go there myself and um, surprise him."

Dean felt his heart sink. Real busy? Yeah. Right. He looked over at her again, seeing the hope on her face. He didn't know what to say.

"Yeah, that'll be a surprise," he said, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.

* * *

_**Salt Lake City, Utah**_

John rolled over on the lumpy bed, feeling his back aching from the restless night, his eyes gritty, a headache lurking somewhere around the base of his skull. He sat up and stared wearily at the clock on the nightstand. Early. They had about eleven to twelve hours still to go before they reached the coast.

Time enough for Sam to test his patience, his control, he thought, rubbing his eyes. They had reached a truce the day before, somewhere in Wyoming, keeping the conversation general and sticking to topics that couldn't generate any heat. He could see that Sam was angry, could see that his son was fighting against something. He just couldn't think what it was, and he couldn't think of a way to approach it that wouldn't explode in both their faces.

He'd kept the details of his hunt for Azazel from them. There was no way he could share that with them, not after what he'd learned about their mother, and what the demon had done to Sam. It was impossible. It was bad enough that he had to bear that burden; putting it onto his children was not an option. And he was still a long way from finding anything that would help Sam, that could provide a way to save him. The search for those things was driving him on, never letting him rest. It was an unfortunate side-effect that it wouldn't let his boys have what they wanted either.

He knew Sam wanted to be out of this life. He wanted that too. God, how he wished that were possible, that he could somehow go back in time and kill the yellow-eyed sonofabitch before it ever got near Mary. But it just wasn't. And as Mick said, _you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need_ … if he could find a way to save Sam, he thought it would be worth the pain of living with the disappointment he saw in his son's eyes.

He stood up and looked over at the other bed. Sam was curled on his side, long legs bare, the covers tangled up around his chest. Kid was going to be taller than Dean, he thought, taller than his old man too most likely. The thought brought a humourless smile to his face. Then he'd be in real trouble when Sam decided to get pugnacious.

They were back on the road in forty minutes, the smell of bacon and egg rolls filling the truck cab as they ate. The day had dawned sunny and bright and for next few hours they'd be climbing up and down over the low ranges that humped across most of the state before crossing the Sierra Nevada into California. John had filled two thermos flasks full of coffee at the diner. He hoped it would counteract the poor sleep he'd gotten last night.

"You know, trust is supposed to be a two-way street," Sam said through a mouthful of his breakfast.

John flicked a glance at him. "You're going to start this early?"

Sam scowled at him. "I don't understand why you won't trust us when every decision you make affects our lives."

"It's not a question of trust, Sam." John stared at the road. "It never has been."

"Then what is it a question of?"

"We're not having this conversation." He felt his foot pressing on the accelerator a little harder and eased it back.

"This is my future you're messing around with, Dad."

"That's right. It is. And it doesn't matter if you understand it or not right now, you are just going to have to trust that I'm doing the best for you, for all of us."

Sam heard the edge creeping into his father's voice and felt his anger rising to meet it.

"That is such a lot of crap. How is dragging us all over the country, and keeping everything a goddamned secret doing your best for us?"

John clamped his teeth together, looked into the mirrors for traffic behind him, and pulled off the road, the truck fishtailing on the gravel shoulder as he hit the brakes. When they'd stopped, he turned to look at his son.

"Listen to me. And I mean really listen because I'm not going to say this again." He ground out, his voice deep with fury. "The only thing you have to remember, Sam is to do what you're told. You're still a kid, you're not ready to know what I know and I have had it with your fucking sanctimonious arguments to the contrary."

Sam looked down at his hands, still holding the last bit of his breakfast. His heart was hammering against his ribs from the sudden stop and from the tone of his father's voice.

"We clear?" John stared at the boy. Sam nodded slowly.

"Not good enough. We clear?" This time he was a lot louder.

"Yessir."

"Good. Now do something useful and get out the map of California. I want a route from Reno to San Francisco that isn't going to involve us in every major commuter road."

"Yessir." Sam opened his window and pitched the remainder of his roll out, getting out the map and opening it up.

John started the engine again and pulled out onto the road, merging with the light traffic and putting his foot down until they were again travelling a few miles over the limit. He could feel his head pounding, his chest constricted by the memory of Sam's face, chastened and a little frightened. How the _fuck_ had they gotten here from where they'd started?

* * *

_**Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania**_

"You hungry?" Dean looked at Marcie. She opened her eyes, rubbing at them with her knuckles like a child. He looked away. She was a child, he thought, younger than Sam.

"Yeah, starving." She looked around. "Where are we?"

"Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania." He merged into the right lane and took the off ramp, slowing the car as they came around the bottom curve and into the street below.

"Uh huh. Where's that again?" The town looked cold and bleak under the grey skies, the grass along the verge and in the gardens dead and dry, the trees leafless and dark.

"'Bout another three hours to New York City," he said, pulling into the driveway of a service station with a chain restaurant attached. He stopped next to the pumps and gestured at the restaurant. "I'll meet you in there."

She nodded and opened the door, wriggling her way out of the car. Dean got out and started pumping gas, watching her slow progress across the lot and into the restaurant. She was a nice kid, a really nice kid, he thought, naïve as hell and not a suspicious or mean bone in her body. He could feel anger rising at the boyfriend who had left her to cope on her own, and he hadn't even met the dude yet.

When he'd paid for the gas and walked into the restaurant, he saw her staring at the menu, shifting from foot to foot.

"What's wrong?" He stood beside her, looking up at the menu. She shook her head, turning away.

"I guess I'm not that hungry after all."

_Not a good liar, either_. "Bullshit, what's wrong?"

He saw her eyes brighten suddenly, swimming in unshed tears and felt his pulse skyrocket. _No, no, no, no. Not crying, not here, in front of everyone_.

"I, uh …" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't have enough money to get anything here, Dean. Not and still have enough when I get to the city."

He felt a wave of relief wash over him. That, he could handle. "Hey, my treat. Come on, pick what you want."

He turned back to the menu, looking at what was on offer. He heard a sniff from beside him and looked down to see Marcie weeping quietly into a handkerchief. He looked around, wondering if everyone was looking at them, at him. _The idiot who knocked up his underage girlfriend and was now making her cry_. He looked back down at her.

"Come on, Marcie, it's okay." _Please. Stop crying. Please stop crying_. "It's no problem."

She sniffed again, blowing her nose into the handkerchief. "Sorry, it's just the hormones; they make everything seem worse than it is. I'm okay." She lifted her head to look at him. "And thanks. I'll pay you back."

He looked around again, over her head. "No need. Happy to. Just order."

* * *

Rule number one, _no eating in the car_, already broken. Dean looked down at his burger, and slid a sideways glance at his passenger. At least she was neat, no crumbs had fallen on her side, wrappings put back into the carry bag. He finished the burger and started the engine, pulling out of the lot and heading back to the interstate.

After a few moments driving, Marcie finished her food and tucked everything into the bag, tying the handles together in a knot so that it couldn't fall over the car. She felt Dean's glance and shrugged.

"Nesting instinct, I guess. I can't deal with mess right now."

Interesting point of view, he thought, considering how messy he thought things would get for her in the very near future.

"So, this guy, uh, Donny?" He looked at her briefly. "Nice guy?"

"Yeah, he's really sweet." Marcie smiled. "He loves me, he told me."

"Uh huh." Dean rolled his eyes. "And when did he … uh, go to New York?"

"Um, well, we talked about the baby, and he left a couple of days later, to go and find a job."

_No jobs in Ohio?_ He thought sarcastically. "How come he went to New York?"

"His dad has a business there. He knew he could get a job that paid good money straight away."

"Okay." There was an outside chance he could be on the level, Dean thought. But he had a feeling that wasn't the case.

* * *

_**San Francisco, California**_

Sam hauled the gear bag up the stairs and along the landing to their room, his own bag over the other shoulder. The small hotel was on the corner of Market and Gough Streets, near the freeway. They were sharing a double room with bath on the third floor. There were a lot of stairs.

He looked around the room with a sigh. He couldn't imagine what he was going to do here all day while his father was seeing the people he wanted to see. He sat on one of the beds and flopped back. The week from hell. He'd just have to deal with it.

John came in five minute later. "You alright here for a while?"

Sam looked up from his book and nodded.

"There's a restaurant down Market a couple of blocks, if I'm late back." He put some cash on the table and looked around briefly.

"Sam, I'm sorry about dumping you here," he said slowly. "I probably should have let you go with Dean. I hoped we'd be able to talk about some of this stuff without killing each other."

Sam ducked his head. "Doesn't look like it, does it?"

John smiled ruefully. "No, not really. We can have another go later. These people, that I'm going to see. They have to do with the demon that killed your mother. That's about all I can say about it."

Sam looked up at him. "Is it bad, Dad? Is that why you have to hide it from us?"

John blinked. Kid was too perceptive sometimes. "It's nothing to do with you and Dean, but yeah, some bits aren't great. I will tell you, I can promise you that. But not yet. Not until I have a much better view of what really happened. Okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"Keep the door locked. Salt's in the bag if you need it. Stay out of trouble."

"Yeah, I will."

John nodded and walked out, closing the door behind him. Sam got up and turned the locks, the action automatic. He picked up his book and lay back on the bed, reading.

* * *

Two hours later he put the book aside and got up, feeling hungry and restless. He put the cash in his pocket, and took the room key, and left, walking down the stairs and then out onto the street. It was too early for dinner. He saw the sign for the small neighbourhood store on the next block and headed for it.

He managed to get a bag full of stuff from the limited selection and headed back to the hotel, his mind going over and over what his father had said. How bad was bad? Was it to do with Mom? What better view did his father need?

He climbed the stairs back up to the room and shifted the bag to his other arm, fishing in his pockets for the key when he felt someone behind him. He dropped the bag and spun around, coming face to face with a girl around his own age, who leapt backwards.

"Crap!"

"Shit!"

"Sorry." Sam bent to pick up his groceries, as the girl took a step closer.

"No, I should've been louder or something. I can always tell when someone's sneaking up behind me too." She picked up the rest of the items lying on the floor and handed them to him. "Alice."

"Uh … Sam." He took them, shoving them back in the bag.

"How long are you staying?" Alice asked.

"A couple of days, I think. Not long." He put the key into the lock and turned it. "My dad's working."

"Mine too." She looked past him, into the room. "Just dumped me here. I have to warn you, there's nothing to do around here."

"That's okay. I brought books along." He stood in the doorway, grocery sack under one arm, not sure what to do next. She didn't seem ready to leave.

"Uh, do you want to come in?" he asked finally.

"Sure." She walked through the door past him, looking around. "This room's a bit better than ours."

Sam put the groceries on the table and pulled out a couple of cans of soda. He held one up, handing it to her as she nodded.

"What's your dad do?" he asked, curious about another father who left his kid alone.

"Corporate sales." She popped open the soda can and swallowed some. "I've been to thirteen different schools since last summer."

"Me too." He smiled at her ruefully. "Some life, huh?"

"Yeah." She looked at the small pile of paperbacks on the nightstand beside the bed she was sitting on. "You like to read?"

"Yeah, helps me to forget all this." He waved his hand around at the room.

She leaned across the bed, resting on her elbow, reading the authors. "Asimov, Bradbury … hmmm … Wyndham?" She looked back at him. "You like his stuff?"

"Yeah, I mean what's not to like?"

"Yeah, too crispy British for me. I like Lovecraft and Bradbury, all that rich gothic darkness."

"What about Cherryh? Or Merrit?"

"I liked the earlier stuff. I haven't been keeping up, have to get my books from secondhand stores, and I can't keep too many." She sat up and shrugged. "I was strictly hardcore sci-fi for a long time, so horror and fantasy are a bit of a new path."

* * *

John glanced at his watch as he got back into the truck. Nearly five. He had two more people to see then he'd be done. He hoped Sam wasn't climbing the walls in the hotel room.

The two interviews he'd already done had confirmed Azazel's presence in the city. There were no reports of any residential fires here, though. So apparently it either didn't have to do with the special children, or he'd been luckier and none of the mothers had interrupted him here. He didn't think that was the case. The demon had been investigating something here, something that had involved killing several people over a period of weeks.

He hoped the last two on his list could give him some kind of a lead as to what. Because otherwise the trip was going to be a big fucking donut.

Sam and Alice sat on the floor, facing each other, their backs against the beds, talking. He'd never had a problem with talking to people, becoming friends with people, but he was a bit amazed at how easy it was to talk to the girl sitting opposite him. They had a lot in common, and she was more articulate and more confident about her own opinions than most of the kids his age.

He looked down at his watch. "You hungry? My Dad said there was an okay restaurant down the block?"

She nodded, climbing to her feet. "Sure. I hate eating alone."

Sam looked around the room and picked up the keys, patting his pocket to check that he still had the cash. He opened the door and followed her out into the hall, locking it behind him.

"You know, I would have thought that you'd like Steinbeck," she said over her shoulder as they walked down the stairs. "You're all kind of broody and full of rage too."

Sam stopped on the step he was on. "I am?"

She turned and looked back up at him. "Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke, I mean, you just have this expression, sometimes … never mind." She turned away and started down again.

Sam hurried after her. "No, it's okay, I'm not offended, I just don't know what you mean."

She shrugged. "You look like you're angry with someone, sometimes. That's all." She laughed nervously. "I really am sorry, I talk before I think, especially when I like someone."

Sam very nearly stopped again, but kept his feet moving. "Oh. So, uh, you like me?"

She caught the faint emphasis and laughed again. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

_**New York City, New York**_

Dean eased up slightly as the signs along the 80 started to show the entry points for Manhattan. He looked over at Marcie.

"Where is Donny living?"

She dug in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. "Um … in Brooklyn?"

He nodded, and changed lanes to take the turnpike down to the Lincoln Tunnel. They would cross Manhattan and take the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd memorised all the major routes to, from and across the city and the surrounding boroughs because he'd never been here before. He hadn't planned on having a passenger. The bookstore he needed for his own errand was in Greenwich Village. He'd drop Marcie off and then come back through Williamsburg, he decided, dropping the thought as the traffic thickened and he focussed on the road ahead.

The traffic was flowing pretty well, and he was able to see the changes he needed to make in plenty of time. They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge shortly after four in the afternoon and he gave Marcie the map so that she could find the address.

He pulled up in front of the apartment building, finding a slot just a couple of yards from the door. The building looked rundown, trash cans sitting unemptied along the front railing and Dean watched Marcie's face fall as she took it in. She felt his gaze and smiled, making an effort to hide her feelings.

"I'm sure it'll look better inside."

He nodded uncertainly, watching as she opened the door and negotiated the kerb. With a sigh, he got out and pulled her suitcase from the back seat, standing on the sidewalk with her.

And if it didn't? Or if he wasn't there? Or if he was but he didn't want to see her? What then? The thoughts hammered at him. Responsibility was something that he'd learned from a very young age. Taking it, owning it, respecting it. He'd been careful himself, but he knew that if by some throw of the dice, he got a girl into this position; he wouldn't have been able to leave her on her own to deal with it.

"Marcie, wait a minute. You got a pen, some paper?" He was going to regret this, he knew it, but he couldn't just get in the car and leave.

She nodded, pulling out both from her purse and handing them to him. He wrote down his name and the number of his cell phone and gave them back to her.

"If … if anything goes wrong and you need some help, that's my cell. I'll be here tonight and until about noon tomorrow, okay?"

She looked up at him with a smile. "That's real sweet, Dean. I'm sure I won't need it, but it's just nice of you to think of it. Thank you."

He nodded, keeping his face expressionless as he mentally gagged at the thought of being considered 'sweet', not him, not really. He got back in the car, watching her as she walked up the steps slowly. He hoped she was right. He hoped he was wrong. He started the engine and pulled away from the kerb, heading north to Williamsburg.

* * *

He found a parking spot a half-block from the bookstore and looked at his watch. Still time. Walking along the sidewalk in the cold gloom of the late afternoon, he found himself looking at the people who lived here. Wrapped against the cold, they streamed up and down the streets, heads bowed, talking or listening to their phones, briefcases, backpacks, purses, satchels clutched in their hands as they headed home from work or wherever they'd been. Conversations tended to be loud, and a dozen different accents filled the air. He walked bemusedly between them, feeling the energy of the city and its inhabitants, but glad he wasn't staying for too long. The press of people against him would become aggravating after a while, he thought, too many, too close.

The bookstore was still lit, catering to the after-work crowds, and he climbed the steps and walked into the warmth thankfully. The clerk at the front desk sent him down the back to the owner's small office. The fading gold leaf paint on the frosted glass door announced Joachim Frankel, Proprietor.

"Yes?" The man sitting behind the desk in the tiny, cramped room was in his sixties, dark brown eyes looking impatiently at him from under bushy grey brows and over a tiny pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

"I'm here to pick up a book. My father ordered it?" He held out the letter. Frankel took it, scanning the contents and returning it.

"Yes, all right. I have it here." He turned away and looked at a shelf behind the desk, where dozens of packages, wrapped in plain brown paper sat on the shelves. "Yes, here it is."

He plucked the large package from the shelf and walked back to the desk, handing the package to Dean.

"It's been paid for. Tell your father to think of us again if he needs anything else. That one was hard to track down, but I think he'll find the expense was worth it."

Dean nodded and backed out of the office, turning and walking out of the shop. A long drive just for a book, he thought, tucking it under his arm.

He'd almost reached the Impala when the question of accommodation occurred to him. He could just head out of the city, back through Jersey and find a motel there. It'd make leaving tomorrow that much easier. But hell, it was New York. How often would he get a chance to spend the night here, go check out the clubs and bars? Except, he realised belatedly, that the legal drinking age here was twenty one, and he was two years shy of that. One year, he amended, in one day.

He unlocked the car and got in, putting the package into the duffle on the back seat. He had a few fake IDs with him, but this wasn't a hunt, where his father would be around to back him up. If he got busted here, he could be sitting around in some jail for a while.

His cell rang and he picked it up, realising when he heard the voice on the other end that his plans and doubts about the evening were now irrelevant.

"Dean? It's Marcie."

He could hear the thickness in her voice, and he pulled in a deep breath. "Hey Marcie, what's wrong?"

"He, uh, he's not here. I waited and finally a neighbour said that no one like Donny had ever lived here." The desolation in her voice was obvious, even over the phone. He shook his head slightly.

"Marcie? You still there, at the apartment block?"

"Uh, no, I'm down the street, at a gas station."

"Okay, stay there, I'm coming to get you, all right? Just stay there."

"Okay."

He started the engine and pulled out of the parking slot, narrowly missing a yellow cab that screamed past, horn blaring. He followed it and turned left, taking another left onto West 4th. He made it onto Broadway and then Canal, turned onto Lafayette and found the on ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge. This time the traffic was start-stop and he could feel his frustration levels rising as the minutes ticked away and he still hadn't crossed the river.

Obviously, Donny never had any intentions of doing anything but getting the hell away, he thought, drumming his fingers against the wheel. He could understand the impulse, but he couldn't understand how someone could just bail on what was clearly their responsibility. He'd played that particular game of roulette himself once, his second time, and the fear that had plagued him for the next week had been enough of a lesson to ensure the use of protection for every subsequent encounter. But during that time, he'd made the decision that he would do what he had to, if the result went the other way. He'd been sixteen, and scared shitless, maybe more of what Dad would say than anything else. It hadn't mattered. He would have faced down his father and anyone else. He was just lucky it hadn't come to that.

The traffic finally got moving once he was on the bridge and he did the last half mile in a couple of minutes. He saw the gas station and pulled in, turned off the engine and locked the car then walked into the store, looking around for her.

She was standing next to the public phone near the back, face pale and eyes swollen and red from crying. He nodded as he walked up to her, reaching down to take her case.

"I must be some kind of idiot, huh?" She looked down at the ground, sniffling. He shook his head, putting his arm around her shoulders and walking her out.

"No. You're not an idiot." He sighed. "Just, uh, maybe too trusting, that's all."

* * *

_**San Francisco, California**_

Sam sat back against the pillows on the bed. Alice sat at the other end of the bed, watching him.

"So? What do you think?"

He looked down into the glass he was holding. There was a lot of the amber liquid left.

"It's, uh, not what I expected." From watching Dad drink it so much, he thought.

"Takes a while to get used to it. You gotta really try to become an alcoholic." She sipped the whiskey in her own glass. "My Mom used to drink. That's why I'm with Dad."

He nodded, taking another sip, his face screwing up involuntarily. "And why do people do this?"

She laughed.

* * *

John sat in the truck, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple. Zero. He leaned back against the seat and let out a long exhale. Not one new piece of information. Whatever that yellow-eyed sonofabitch had been doing here, no one knew. He looked out the window. Across the street was a small bar. He could definitely use a drink.

He looked at his watch. It was almost eight. He pulled his cell from his pocket and dialled the hotel room, hanging up after the first ring, then calling back.

"Hey Dad." Sam answered straight away.

"Hey. Listen, I'm going be a bit longer, so don't wait up. You okay?" He looked at the bar.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Probably sack the hit in a minute."

John frowned. "What?"

"Sorry, I meant hit the sack," Sam said slowly and clearly. John's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Sam, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just more tired than I thought. I'll see you later then."

"Yeah, see you later." He closed the phone. Either Sam was really tired, or really pissed at him. He couldn't tell which from that conversation. He slid out of the truck and locked it up, then walked across the road to the bar. A nightcap or two would take the edge off his disappointment with this waste-of-time trip, and give Sam the chance to be asleep before he got back.

* * *

"Damn," Sam said, peering owlishly at the empty glass. "Nearly blew it."

Alice looked up from beside him, where she'd buried herself when she'd got the giggles. "You covered it up really well."

He wriggled down beside her. "Think so?"

"Yeah, it was smooth." She smiled at him and he wondered what her mouth tasted like. He raised his gaze to meet hers and held his breath as he saw her expression.

"What?"

"Wanna make out?" She touched his arm lightly.

"Yeah." He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers, feeling her arms wrap around him, pulling him down onto her.

* * *

John sat at the bar, nursing his drink. Where could he go from here? He had no leads. No more people to talk to. No more places to investigate. He thought about how much easier data collection was now, and wondered if he'd be able to start tracking ahead of the demon, if he could get the signs quickly enough. It was something. Something he could find out.

He needed Frank. But only Bobby knew how to get in touch with Frank, and there was no chance of getting his help. Not now.

He finished the whiskey and nodded to the bartender, who brought the bottle over and poured him another.

There were other computer geniuses in the world, for god's sake. He could find one, surely. Behind him, at one of the small tables that filled the rest of the room, he heard a throaty laugh. He turned around, and froze for a long moment, looking at the back of the woman sitting there, long, blonde hair in soft waves loose over her shoulders. She turned slightly and he could see that it wasn't – she looked quite different. He let out his breath, and turned back to the bar, his hands a little unsteady as he lifted the glass.

How much longer would that last? It had been twelve years and still, a laugh, or a glimpse, some small familiarity, could reduce him to a shaking mess. How much longer?

He felt someone coming up behind him and gave a quarter turn, seeing the tall blonde in the corner of his eye as she came up to the bar beside him. From the front, and the side, she didn't look anything like Mary. Similar colouring, but nothing really like his dead wife.

As if she'd felt his eyes, she turned to look at him. "Hi."

"Hi. Sorry, I wasn't … you remind me a little of someone I knew." He turned away.

"That sounds sad," she said softly.

He nodded, and sipped the whiskey.

"I'm a good listener, if you feel like some company?" She leaned on the bar, facing him.

He turned back to her and looked at her.

"Or if you'd rather not talk, we could do something else to help you forget?" She had dark blue eyes, and he looked into them, feeling a faint stirring of desire, wondering if that's what he wanted – just to forget for a while, get lost in someone else.

"My place isn't far." She waited. He dragged in a deep breath, feeling an intoxication that seemed excessive to the amount of alcohol he'd had. He nodded and got up from the bar stool.

She slid her arm through his, and they walked out of the bar, turning left and going up the street for a half a block. The building's doorway was recessed into the façade and in the shadows there, he felt her hands touch him lightly. The faint stirring became an overpowering need and he pushed her back against the stone wall, his mouth closing over hers hungrily, his arms encircling her to pull her close.

"Okay tiger, let's get inside and we'll have all the time in the world." She pushed him away and slid the key into the lock, opening the door. He followed her up the stairs, his breathing harsh and rapid, his mind filled with a single thought.

* * *

Sam felt utterly out of control. His heart was beating too fast, and he could see that Alice's was too, her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat like a trapped bird. They were lying entwined on the bed, his shirt was off, hers was unbuttoned, and he was kissing her – and she was kissing him back.

He felt her hand cover his, moving it over her breast, and the sensation that bolted from his fingers to his groin at that touch brought a long deep moan from him. God. No wonder Dean … the rest of the thought was vaporised when her hand slid down his chest and stomach, the short nails dragging slightly along his skin, both tickling and … not.

He lifted his head to look down at her, her half-closed eyes and shining parted lips.

"Come on, Sam." She murmured to him, drawing him down again, but turning her head so that his lips lay against the soft skin at the side of her neck. Her fingers brushed lightly over the hard bulge in his jeans and he shut his eyes tightly, his muscles spasming in reaction.

* * *

John lay on the bed, watching her strip her clothing off, the desire that had come so suddenly now an aching torment in his flesh. When she stood naked and came to his side, it was all he could do not to throw her down and take her as hard and fast as he could.

"It's okay, I know how you're feeling," she whispered against his ear, her tongue flicking out as her hands travelled over his body. "Forget all your disappointments, forget your past, tonight just feel, just exist."

She slid down him and his fists clenched in the covers, then he reached for her and pulled her back up, kissing her lips, his mouth moving along the smooth skin of her throat, his hands exploring her, rolling them both over so that she lay under him.

She lay back against the pillows and smiled, stroking his hair. "Oh yes, let's just forget everything but this."

* * *

"Sam? You okay?" Alice looked at him, seeing the fine sheen of sweat over his face, his eyes slightly unfocussed.

"Huh? Yeah," he stopped moving, feeling her nipple against his palm, through the thin silk of the bra.

"Sam, is this …," She looked at him more closely. "Is this the first time you've done this?"

He felt a flush of heat rising up his throat, knowing miserably that it was colouring his face. He nodded slowly, flinching as he heard a snort from her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry – it's just that, well, you're a pretty gorgeous guy, I thought you'd be … uh, geez, I'm sorry."

"Don't keep saying that, okay?" He moved to roll off her, and she held his shoulders.

"I'm not sorry about you, or what we're doing, just that I didn't know." She ducked her head to look into his face. "Okay?"

He nodded. She looked down at his hand, and put hers over it again.

"Don't stop, just keep doing what you were doing." Her voice was a little breathless as he leaned forward again, bending his head.

Her hand held his and she moved it slowly down her body, over her ribs, and stomach, sliding past the unbuttoned edge of her jeans. He looked up at her again, his eyes wide, and she nodded slightly, pulling him down to kiss him.

* * *

John lay on his back, unable to move. His mouth was dry and he turned his head from side to side, looking for her. Every muscle ached and he was spent.

He heard a soft noise and turned toward it, seeing her return, the swing of her long hair as she bent toward him, her mouth covering his. He felt desire rise again, and he tried to tell her that he couldn't, couldn't move, so tired. Her fingers moved over his body and the nerves responded, his heart accelerating again, his breathing shallowing into short gasps. He felt her lips around him and he groaned at the sensation, the exquisite pleasure bordering on pain. His eyes closed and consciousness fled.

* * *

Sam woke suddenly, twisting to look at the clock on the nightstand. Three a.m. He felt an arm over his chest and looked down, the memories of the night coming back in a rush.

Alice slept next to him, mostly still clothed. He had taken off his shirt but nothing else. He remembered making out with her, going further and further and then … he must have fallen asleep. From across the hall he heard a thump.

"Alice, wake up!" He shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes slowly, looked up at him.

"There's someone bumping around in the hallway." He got off the bed, picking up his t-shirt and pulling it back over his head, going to the door and pressing against it. Alice sat up and buttoned her shirt, doing up the button and zip on her jeans. She stood next to Sam at the door and listened.

"Oh crap, that's my dad."

"Fire escape?" Sam ran to the window, opening it and looking along the exterior wall. He nodded. Alice looked out the peep hole again, seeing her dad still trying to open their room door. She ran for the window and slipped out onto the iron platform that ran along the side of the building, opening the window to her room and slipping inside.

Sam shut the window and sat on the bed. He remembered what they'd done, most of it, anyway. And he remembered how it'd felt, the memory bringing a flush of desire to him again, a rising ache and images that were more sense memories, tingling in his skin. No wonder Dean couldn't shut up about it, he thought.

He looked at the clock again. Three a.m. Past closing time, for most bars. He wondered if he should be worried about his father.

* * *

It was nine when he woke the next morning, still in his clothes, lying in a pool of sunshine from the window. He felt … awful. He got up slowly, his head aching and decided that he needed something to eat, followed by a lot of water and some Tylenol.

He glanced at his father's bed and frowned. The covers were smooth and pristine. Dad hadn't come home last night.

He made himself some toast and forced it down, drank about a quart of water and took the Tylenol. By the time that was done, he was starting to feel worried.

He picked up his phone.

* * *

_**Hazelton, Ohio**_

Dean rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head as something buzzed insistently in the room. He finally woke up enough to realise it was his phone, and he reached out an arm, grabbing it.

"What?"

"Dean, it's Sam."

Sam's voice instantly drove the remnants of sleep from him and he sat up.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure anything is. When Dad takes you on hunts, does he ever stay out all night?"

"What do you mean?" He frowned as he tried to decipher what Sam was talking about. Some hunts meant that they were out around the clock.

"I mean, if he says he'll be back late, does he ever stay out all night, like … with someone … maybe."

"Oh." Dean nodded. "Uh, no … not when we're hunting. He's, uh, disciplined about that. Why are you asking me this, Sam?"

"Because he didn't come home last night."

Dean felt his heart slowing down, his breathing stop. "Did he say he'd be out all night?"

"No, he rang around eight and said he'd be back late, but not to wait for him."

The prickle of unease became stronger. Dean thought about the distances between them. No matter how fast he went or how long he drove for, it was still twenty-five hundred miles and there was no way he could get there any quicker than … Monday.

"Sam, you need to find him. You need to find the truck. You find that, and you'll find him. I'll be there as soon as I can, but … man, it's going to take me nearly three days."

"I know." Sam sounded very young suddenly and Dean's jaw clenched at the realisation that Sam was there alone, no one to look after him.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Find the truck. Call me when you do."

"Okay."

He closed the phone and yanked on his clothes, grabbing the bags and sweeping the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He left the room and put the bags in the car, then walked to the door of the next room and knocked hard, hoping she was already awake.

Marcie opened the door after the second knock. "Are we going? Sorry I didn't ask what time –"

Dean cut her off. "Marcie, I'm sorry but I can't drop you home. I just got a call from my brother and our Dad is missing so I've gotta go, and I'm gonna have to go fast."

He pulled out his wallet, pulling out the cash his father had given him and handing it to her. "You should be able to get a bus home with this."

She looked at the money and shook her head. "No. I called my dad last night, he's coming to get me."

Dean saw through the lie with ease, shaking his head. "Come on, Marcie, you can't lie to me, I'm practically a professional. Take the money, get the bus. Go home." He looked at her. "Please, I have to go."

She took it slowly and looked at him, tears filling the lower edge of her lids again. "Thanks. For everything. You're a good guy, Dean."

"Be safe, okay. Look after yourself." He raced to the car and got in, starting the engine and reversing out of the slot. He looked back and saw her raise her hand. Then he turned out onto the street and accelerated toward the interstate.

* * *

_**San Francisco, California**_

Sam ignored the renewed pounding in his head as he walked up the long hill to the Haight. His father had said that the last two interviews were local, and he'd been quartering the area since nine thirty, going ten blocks one way, then ten in another direction. His legs were aching and the bright sunshine was sending spears of pain through his eyes, but he kept walking.

This was Dad, he thought worriedly. What the hell could have taken him by surprise?

He finally came to the top of the hill, and turned right, walking along the narrow streets, his eyes searching the cars parked along the kerbs for the glossy black truck. He'd almost reached the end of his ten blocks when he saw it, and he sagged with relief, leaning against an iron railing for a moment, then running along the sidewalk and across the road to it. It was locked up, looked intact, no signs of anything wrong or out of place with it. He looked around, seeing the tall rows of Victorian terraces along this side of the street, and more of the same on the other. His gaze was snagged by the discreet neon sign almost opposite, a small neighbourhood bar, squeezed in between the houses.

He crossed the road and went in, stopping just past the door to give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness inside after the brightness of the sunshine-filled street outside. As his vision improved, he could see a long counter, a few tables, a couple of customers sitting in a booth on one wall, talking quietly. The bartender looked at him, polishing a glass absently.

Sam walked to the bar. "I'm, uh, looking for someone. A man, 'bout six foot two inches, dark hair and beard, might have had a drink here last night."

The bartender nodded. "Yeah, I remember him. He drank whiskey."

"Right. Did you see him leave?"

"Yeah, left about nine, with a lady." The bartender put the glass back under the counter.

Sam bit his lip. If he was just out with someone, maybe he was okay.

"Uh, did you know the lady? I mean, is she a regular?"

"Yeah, for a few weeks. She must live somewhere around here, because she's taken a few guys home and I've never heard a car leave, doesn't call for a cab either."

"Thanks." Sam turned away and walked back out on to the street. He didn't know what to do. The truck was still there, and he couldn't imagine his father just deciding to spend a night and a day with someone he'd just met. A night, maybe, sure. But the whole next day? And no phone call?

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called his brother.

* * *

_**I-80 W, Princeton, Illinois**_

Dean yanked the phone from his pocket.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, I found the truck. It was parked next to a bar, and Dad was definitely there last night, he left with a woman around nine." Sam's voice held an undercurrent of fear. "I've been trying his cell all day. Just goes to voicemail."

Dean nodded. "Yeah me too."

"He wouldn't do this, would he? Just stay with someone without letting us know?" Sam bit his lip. He realised that he didn't know his father well enough to have a clear idea of this area of his life.

"No, Sam. He wouldn't, no way." Dean was adamant. There had been a couple of occasions in the last couple of years when Dad had been out later than he'd expected, and the last one, he'd had a pretty good idea of what he was doing, but he'd never stayed the whole night, let alone this long.

"The bartender said it was someone local, been around a few weeks, taken a few guys home."

Dean thought about it. What the hell were they dealing with?

"Sam, can you get to Dad's journal? Is it in the room or the truck?"

"It's not in the room." Sam walked slowly back to the truck. "It might be in the truck, but it's locked."

"You have to get into it." He chewed the corner of his lip. "If you have to break a window, then do it, but you have to find the journal. We have to know what's taken him."

Sam nodded, looking at the truck in front of him. "Okay, I will."

Dean closed the phone, his foot pressing down the accelerator a little more. He couldn't afford to be pulled over. But he couldn't afford to take any longer than he had to either.

* * *

_**San Francisco, California**_

John moved slightly on the bed, opening his eyes. The curtains were drawn and the room was dim, shadowy. He couldn't see anything moving, couldn't hear any sound from within the apartment. He tried to roll onto his side, but his muscles wouldn't respond, the leaden weight of his body sunk into the mattress.

The mental fog that had dulled his thoughts was gone, for the moment at least. It was feeding from him, he knew that now. He swore at himself for falling for it, for not being aware of the possibility of it. He'd warned Dean about them, for crying out loud, and fallen into the trap himself.

Time for self-crimination later. Sam was alone at the hotel. Dean was at least three days away, four more likely. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, but not more than twenty hours, he guessed because the feeding hadn't progressed far enough to completely shut him down. Another session might do that, he thought, feeling a frisson up his spine. Even knowing what it was, what it was doing to him, didn't dampen the sense memories that his body held.

He lay still and tried to get his body to work. He could move some of the muscles, he just had to take it slowly. But whatever he was going to do, he had to do it before it came back, because what he couldn't do was fight.

* * *

Sam walked quickly along the street, looking in trash cans, along the gutters, looking for anything that he use to open the truck with. He stopped outside of a store, looking at the wooden crate on the sidewalk, the metal strapping that had held it shut still around it. He took one of the straps and hurried back to the truck.

Bobby had taught him how to break into cars. Him and Dean, four summers ago. How the locks were positioned, how to release them without damaging the vehicle. Now, he slid the flat wide strap down alongside the glass, feeling for the edge of the lock inside the door. The Sierra's locks were no longer a tight fit, and as the rough edge of the strap caught the bottom of the lock, he yanked it up, the knob lifting correspondingly inside the car.

He scrambled in, and started looking. The journal was in the glove box, and he sat on the seat and opened it, flipping fast through the pages, past the monsters he knew about it, slowing down for those he hadn't encountered, that John hadn't mentioned. He was more than halfway through when he found what he thought might be it. He pulled out his phone and dialled his brother again.

"Dean? I think I've found it."

"What is it?" Dean's voice sounded tinny through the phone.

"A succubus." He looked down the page, his eyes skimming over the details.

"Crap." In the car, almost two thousand miles away, Dean felt his stomach sinking.

"What? What's wrong?" Sam pressed the phone more tightly against his ear.

"It's a demon, Sam. We can't kill it." He inhaled slowly and deeply. "And you can't go after this thing by yourself."

"But, the journal says it kills its victims, Dean. It feeds on potassium in the body and the victim gets weaker and weaker until they die. I have to find him."

"Yeah. I know." He'd never felt as helpless and useless in his life as he did at that moment. "All right. Sam, listen to me, okay?"

"Yeah, I'm listening."

"Demons leave traces of sulphur where they've been. If you can find that it'll help to figure out where he is."

"Okay." Sam felt his throat closing up, both with fear of having to hunt this thing by himself, and fear that his father would die if he didn't.

"You find that sulphur, you call the police, you hear me, Sam? Call the police and an ambulance, tell them anything, tell them you heard gunshots at the address, tell them you heard screaming – anything to get them there in force, alright?"

"Yeah. Call the police, call an ambulance." Sam nodded.

"If there are enough people there, I think it'll leave, not try to fight them." He hoped that it would leave. He hoped it wasn't powerful enough to take everyone down and still kill his father.

"Okay, sulphur. Cops. Ambulance." Sam repeated to himself. "I'm on it."

In the car far to the east, Dean's knuckles stood out white as he put the cell back in his pocket, his heart hammering at what he'd just asked his brother to do, at the imaginings of his father's still corpse in his mind, at the torturous knowledge that they were in danger and he couldn't get there any faster.

* * *

Sam looked across the street to the bar. Somewhere within easy walking distance. He looked up and down the street. Which way? It didn't matter, he thought. He'd start with a one block perimeter. If he didn't find anything in that, he'd extend it to two.

He put the journal back into the glove box and reached under the driver's seat for the .38 his father kept there. It wasn't loaded with anything special, just standard steel jacketed rounds, but he thought that the steel might slow a demon down somewhat if it was needed. If not, the gunfire would ensure that someone in the neighbourhood called the cops. He checked the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, pulling his shirt over it to cover it.

He got out of the truck and locked it again, then crossed the road and turned left at the bar, walking slowly along the street and going up the steps of each house and building, his eyes searching for the tell-tale yellow of sulphur.

* * *

The man stood at the doorway of the bedroom, looking at the bed. Beside him, a tall woman, with a long fall of pale blonde hair, followed his gaze.

"I don't think he'll last another round," she said, her voice deep and sultry. The man looked at her, the irises of his eyes a bright, mottled yellow.

"I agree. You've done very well here." He smiled, looking back to the bed. "Winchester has been a pain in my ass for a long time."

"What did you want to do with his seed?" She looked at the demon lord curiously.

Azazel smiled. "Oh, I have plans. Never doubt that I have plans." He turned back to her, "You just keep it safe, and I'll come for you when he's dead."

She nodded, and turned back to the living room. "Can I get you a drink?"

He followed her out.

On the bed, John opened his eyes.

* * *

Sam walked fast back along the street toward the bar. There was nothing on the eastern end of the street. He slowed down as he passed the bar, and began to look carefully at the surrounds of the houses heading west.

He'd almost reached the end of the block when he came to the apartment building. It was the only one on the street, and had a deep alcove at the top of the stairs, recessed into the façade of the building to provide shelter for the front door. He climbed the steps tiredly, and bent over to look around the space. He was starting to straighten up when he saw the glint of yellow against the grey stone, under the line of mailboxes. He looked at it and reached out slowly with his finger, the powder clinging to it as he touched it. Sulphur. Definitely.

He looked up at the block, an elegant Victorian structure, fussy with carvings and embellishments. From the front it looked like a four-apartment block, but he thought that the building might go deeper. He looked at the mailboxes set into the side of the building's front alcove. There were six. He walked over, examining them more closely. There was a faint smudge of sulphur against apartment five's box.

He turned and pushed against the front door, but it was locked, an intercom to the side of the door for announcing visitors. He was peering in through the elaborate stained glass panels when he saw legs coming down the stairs. Turning fast, he jumped down the stairs, walking quickly back up the block toward the bar. The man and woman who exited the building turned the other way, strolling slowly down the street away from him.

Sam leaned back against the wrought iron railing of the house behind him, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his heart beating heavily in his chest. He watched them turn the next corner and disappear.

Dean had told him to call the police, call an ambulance. He pulled out his phone and dialled 9-1-1.

"Emergency. What is the nature of your problem?"

"I heard gunshots, lots of them and screaming. I think someone's been killed," he said fast, almost stumbling over the words. "You need to send the police, and an ambulance, straight away."

"What address are you calling from?" The voice of the operator was maddeningly slow and even.

"Three sixty-five Downey Street, apartment five, in the Haight." He bit his lip.

"Police and ambulance are on their way, sir. What is your name?"

Sam hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. On their way. He looked down the street again. He couldn't just stand here, not when his father might be dying in that building. He took a couple of steps towards the building and stopped. What if the demon was there?

The sound of sirens pulled his attention back to the street. Two police cars screamed up, pulling up haphazardly in front the building, cops getting out of both. He watched, relief flooding him as an ambulance pulled in behind them, the paramedics leaping out of the vehicle, and running to the back. They threw open the rear doors and pulled out a gurney with the fluid speed of long practice.

He walked down the street. He'd need to be there when they brought Dad out, needed to be there in the ambulance.

* * *

_**I-80 W, Des Moines, Iowa**_

Dean snatched up the phone on the first ring.

"Sammy!?"

"It's okay, he's okay. I found him. The cops got him out. He's in the hospital." Sam's words fell over themselves coming out.

Dean felt the bands of fear around his chest soften and relax. "Okay, good job, Sammy, really good job." He looked at mileage counter, calculating how long it would take him to get there. "What hospital?"

"St Marys Medical Centre, on Stanyan Street."

"Got it." He inhaled deeply. "Is he … okay?"

"Yeah, he's in the ICU at the moment, but they're replacing the potassium he lost, and the doctors say he'll be all right."

"Okay." He let the breath he'd been holding out again. "I just passed Des Moines, Sam, it'll take me another two days."

"S'okay. We're both okay now," Sam said quietly. "They want to keep him here for a few days, make sure."

"Yeah." Dean flexed his fingers on the wheel. "I'll see you soon."

* * *

_**San Francisco, California.**_

John wriggled up against the pillows, looking out the window of the room he was in. It was a pretty good view, over Golden Gate Park, a glimpse of the bay beyond the drop of the hill.

Azazel's words kept churning in his mind. It had been a very close call, he knew. The bastard was getting trickier in his attempts. They'd have to go underground for a while, stay off the grid until he could figure out the next lead. He turned as the door opened, and Sam came in.

"Hey."

"Brought you some coffee." Sam pushed the wheeled bed tray over to the bed and set the cup on it.

"Thanks." John picked up the cup and sipped. A vast improvement over what the hospital referred to as coffee. He looked at his son.

"I didn't thank you for finding me, Sam," he said slowly. "For saving me."

Sam looked away. "Not like I had a choice."

John reached out and took the boy's hand, squeezing it. "Maybe not, but thanks. A few more hours and I would have died."

Sam's fingers tightened convulsively around his father's.

"You were right."

Sam looked up, his brow wrinkling. "About what?"

"You need to know what's going on." Not everything, he thought, but most of it. "You need to have more information."

Sam nodded slowly. "Was it the demon that killed Mom?"

John sighed. "Yeah, he's figured out that I'm hunting him, and he's going to try this again. Some other way, some other time, but he'll definitely try again."

They both looked up as they heard fast, heavy steps in the corridor. The door swung open and Dean looked at them, his momentum halted at the sight. His brother's eyes were bright, his father's face soft with concern. He took another step into the room.

John smiled at his eldest son's expression. He looked like he'd been pole-axed. It wasn't hard to guess the reason for it. He could see the emotion rising in Dean.

"How was the trip?" He kept the question deliberately casual, off-hand.

Dean stopped, the banality of the question bringing his emotions back down under his control. His mouth twisted in a half smile. "Long."

"Did you get the book?" John felt Sam starting to pull away from him, and held onto his hand. It would be a few more years before Sam understood the relationship between his father and his brother, the way they could see each other's weaknesses, and offered humour or anger or work as a distraction.

"Yeah. Lot of gas for one book, Dad," Dean said, his tone derisive. He walked around the bed to John's side, standing there and looking at him, his gaze searching his father's face. "So … Sammy had to rescue you?"

John grinned widely. "Yeah, guess he's better trained than I thought, huh?"

Dean nodded, looking at his brother. "Guess so." He looked back to his father. "You must have been careless."

Sam looked at them, his hand still firmly held in his father's. He'd felt an anger rise when his father had been so casual about Dean's frantic attempt to get back to them. He could see the shadows under his brother's eyes, the tells of no sleep and a lot of tension. But he realised that they didn't need to make a big thing of it. His father knew what Dean would have been feeling, during that long haul across the continent. And Dean knew too that it wasn't unnoticed, unappreciated.

He'd missed stuff about them, both of them. He'd made assumptions about them that just weren't true. He didn't know them as well as he thought he did.

* * *

"_And the tough thing about adulthood is it starts before you even know it starts, when you're already a dozen decisions into it."_

_~ Professor Stephen Malley, Lion for Lambs_


	20. Chapter 20 Evil in the Air

**Chapter 20 Evil In The Air**

* * *

_**1999. White Rock, New Mexico**_

The small, close motel room was still and airless, the ancient air-conditioner rattling and burping to itself from the outer wall but making no difference whatsoever to either the air movement or temperature. Sam sat at the table, one knee keeping it from wobbling on the uneven floor, his hair hanging over his forehead as he looked down at his notes. Against the interior wall, his older brother sat on the edge of a sagging and threadbare sofa, wiping a trickle of sweat absently back through his hair as he lifted his gaze to look at his father.

John looked from Dean to Sam. "So, run it back for me."

Dean took a breath. "Uh, Sadie Marston, wife of Andrew Marston. Disappeared in 1965, never seen again. Andrew Marston claimed she left him and he sold the mine and moved north, possibly Maine."

Sam flicked through the pages of his notebook. "Um … Michael Shaunnessy, still alive and living in White Rock, said that he didn't believe Mrs Marston left, thought she was murdered by her husband, and buried somewhere on the mine site. The children apparently left with the father."

"We found two possible grave sites for Mrs Marston, both based on local knowledge. A mine shaft near the property boundary which has been out of commission for fifty years; the other at the back of the house, in the, uh, vegetable garden." Dean grimaced.

"Right. Gear packed?" John looked at Dean, who nodded. "We'll check the mine tonight."

They'd arrived two days ago, after four people had been killed in what was definitely a vengeful spirit attack. It hadn't taken a lot of work to find Sadie Marston. The sordid business was recent enough that many of the people living in the town remembered the players, remembered the situation. What was more worrying was that no hunter had come across the case before. There was a cycle, although it wasn't very regular. The ghost rose around the ten year mark, sometimes a couple of years earlier, sometimes a couple of years later, but it killed between two and five people on those occasions, and it should have come up on someone's radar before this. Shaunnessy had speculated that the haunting had been in cycle with the drought/flood pattern in the area. John thought he was probably right. Rising groundwater could aggravate the situation, especially in ground with a high mineral content.

Sam got up and gathered the pile of text books he carried around with him permanently now. In the month at Blue Earth last year, while his father had been recovering, he'd finally managed to get a comprehensive book list from one of the teachers, outlining exactly what he needed to focus on this year. He really needed to be in school, to be working on this stuff hard, but that was unlikely. Their father was keeping them moving this year, no more than a week or two in each town and his schooling was a disaster area. He knew why, at least. His father was worried about the demon and what it would try next.

Dean stretched out on the sofa, twisting automatically to accommodate the protruding springs, and closed his eyes. He'd been in the library all afternoon and his head was pounding. A few zzz's before heading out seemed like a good idea. Within thirty seconds, he was asleep, oblivious to the noises of the malfunctioning air-conditioner, the mutterings of his brother, or the banging around in the kitchenette of his father.

* * *

Four hours later, Sam stood next to his brother on the lip of the shaft, looking out over the empty countryside. In the east, a faint glow suggested moonrise was imminent, but for the moment the sky was filled with stars, the high ridge to the south hiding the loom of the town from them, and the starlight was strong enough to outline their features against the blackness of the ground.

John threw the rope down the shaft. He double checked that it was anchored solidly, swung himself over the edge, and walked his way down the shaft wall into the stygian darkness. Dean watched him disappear, relieved when he heard the sound of boots hitting the ground, and saw the flashlight beam come on, bobbing around some fifty feet below. He checked that Sam's salt circle was intact, and lowered himself over the edge, flexing his fingers in the tough leather gloves a few times to ensure his grip.

Sam peered over the edge of the shaft, watching as a second flashlight beam joined the first, blinking twice. Turning on his own light, he covered and uncovered it twice in response. At the bottom of the shaft, the lights turned together, splashing over a wall and disappeared. He flicked the switch of his flashlight off, and looked around. The countryside was silent, no wind, no motion anywhere. He settled in to wait.

It took his father and brother almost three hours to make sure that there were no remains in the mine tunnels or shaft. Sam watched the rope jerking as they climbed back out, both filthy with dust and, unsurprisingly, looking as if they'd just spent three hours hiking around an underground mine. Dean stripped his gloves off and tucked them into the bag he carried, wiping his hand over his face to clear the dirt from his mouth and nose.

"Well, that was fun." He looked around tiredly, eyes bright in the grime covering his face.

John picked up the canteen and passed it to him, unhooking the shovels from the bag and passing them to Sam to return to the truck. Dean washed the tepid water around his mouth and spat a couple of times, tipping the canteen up and swallowing several mouthfuls before he passed it back to his father. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, nose wrinkling up a little as he realised he could still taste the dust at the back of his throat.

"So, nothing happened at all up here?" He turned to look at Sam, brows raised. Sam shook his head.

"Nope, not even a coyote around to look." He lifted his bag and carried it down to the truck, hearing his brother's footsteps following him.

Most of what they did was exactly like what had happened tonight, he thought, tossing the bag into the truck's tray and opening the passenger door. A lot of standing around, waiting for things to happen, sometimes futilely. He didn't mind doing the research on the jobs his father found, checking the history and talking to the people who might've seen or heard or known about something. But this part, this part was a waste of his time, he thought, glancing out through the back as he heard his brother climb into the tray behind him. The small access window in the rear window opened and Dean looked at him as their father got into the driver's seat.

"Guess it's the veggie garden tomorrow night then."

Sam turned away, his mouth puckered with distaste. There would only be bones left, but the thought of a murdered woman being buried in her own garden sent a shiver through him. What kind of person would do that to their own family?

* * *

In the main room of the small unit, John shifted restlessly on the double bed, kicking the covers off, the night air raising gooseflesh along his arms and chest. He rolled suddenly then stopped moving, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow.

_The house. The house in Lawrence. He stood outside of it, under a pewter sky, and the angles were all wrong, the shadows wrong, the colours all wrong. Something wicked this way comes. The line ran through his mind, over and over again, looping._

_He didn't want to walk into that house. He really, really didn't want to. But his feet took him, step by step, forward, and he was crossing the grass, and taking the first step up to the porch, then another, and another. The front door yawned opened in front of him, but he could see the flicker from the second story, light and shadow jumping and leaping over the pictures on the landing, hear the muted roar from the nursery._

_He spun around and stared at the man who stood behind. Yellow eyes. No pupils. Just a mottled yellow covering the irises completely._

_He looked around again, wetting his lips. "This is a dream, isn't it?"_

_The demon smiled slowly. "You catch on quick, John."_

"_How can you be in my dream?" It wasn't important, he was buying time, time to work out what this meant, time to figure it out, because he had to figure it out._

"_No ordinary demon am I. But you already knew that, didn't you?"_

"_You're one of the fallen. Lower ranked, I guess." He looked at the face, an innocuously ordinary face, square and pale-skinned, thick strawberry-blonde hair greying at the temples, a wide smile that didn't reach the eyes, memorising it feature by feature. He had to be ready, ready to kill the sonofabitch when he saw him._

"_Oooh, nice try, but no cigar." Azazel walked toward him. "You've been moving around a lot, John, getting so it's hard to keep up with you."_

_John waited._

"_You want me to get to the point, that it? No problem. I'm coming for you, John, have no fear but first I'm going to take the kids. Just so you know who to blame when you find them gutted and strung up from a power pole somewhere."_

"_You touch them, and I'll follow you down to Hell and rip you into so many pieces they'll never find all them." John felt himself shaking helplessly, his fists knotted, every muscle in his body aching with rigid contraction._

"_Tsk-tsk. Ease up there, John, you'll blow a gasket." He walked around John, talking over his shoulder. "Dean will be first. You ever heard the phrase 'blood eagle', John? It's quite a sight."_

_Wake up, wakeup, _WAKEUP!

John sat up, gasping and shivering, the sweat that coated him and the linen around him chilled in the cold desert air. He got out of the bed and lurched to the bathroom, turning the taps on, splashing the slowly warming water over his face. He grabbed a towel and rubbed himself down hard, trying to get warmth and feeling back into his limbs.

Just a tactic. If Azazel could get to them, he'd have done it by now, he told himself. Just a scare tactic because the fucking demon knows I'm right behind him. He dragged in breath after breath deeply, forcing his diaphragm to work, to ease the tension in his chest and shoulders and neck.

Leaning against the sink, he felt the muscles slowly unknot, the pain dissipate, his thoughts slow and become more coherent as the images in his mind's eye faded away.

Elkins. He closed his eyes. He had to go and see Daniel. Sonofabitch had to know where the gun was.

* * *

"Dad, you were the one who taught me –" Dean glanced at his brother and corrected himself. "– taught us, to finish what we start."

John looked up from packing his canvas bag. "I will finish it, Dean. We will finish it. But I have to do this first. A lot depends on it. It's a six hour drive; I'll be back before midnight."

"What happened?" Sam looked at him uneasily.

"Nothing happened." He looked at the boy and put the gun he was holding down. "Look, I realise this seems erratic. Please. Trust me when I say it's important." He heard the demon's voice in his head again, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were hard.

"No more arguments. You can handle the grave digging and the rest, Dean. You've done it often enough. I'll be back tonight."

He swung the bag onto his shoulder and turned for the door. "Watch yourselves. Watch out for each other. No going off on your own today."

The door slammed behind him.

"What the hell was that?" Sam looked at his brother. Dean shook his head.

"No idea, dude." It worried the crap out of him, because his father wasn't erratic. He was methodical and pragmatic and had pounded into them the need to do things the right way. He glanced at his brother. Sam didn't need to see his doubts.

"Let's get this stuff ready." He walked back to the bed, and pulled his gear bag up, unzipping it and checking over the contents. Sam looked at his back, seeing the lines of tension through the shoulders, the jerkiness in his brother's movements. Dean might not be ready to admit to it, but he was worried. It didn't make him feel any better to know that.

* * *

_**US-285 N**_

John found that he had to keep an eye on the speedometer as the truck surged faster with every downward tension-driven press of his foot against the accelerator. He tried deep breathing, he tried singing along to the tapes he put in, he even tried humming – having noticed his eldest son using the technique when stressing out. None of it worked, so he watched the speedometer and made sure he wasn't too far over the limit as he passed through town after town heading north.

The demon didn't know where the boys were, he told himself. If it had, they would all be dead now. He hadn't used a dreamcatcher for a lot of years, hadn't needed it so much for a lot of years, but there was one in the trunk and he'd be using it from now on.

Goddamned Elkins. The vampire hunter had been telling him for years now that the gun might be in Michigan, or Florida, or Arizona or Oregon. And for years, John had followed the tips, driving out to whatever state and town Elkins had said, searching high and low, invariably returning without it. He was sure that Elkins knew where the hell it was. The trouble was, Luther, the vampire who'd gotten away, was Elkin's demon. The last time they'd spoken the creature had found another couple of friends of Daniel's. One he'd killed outright. The other he'd turned and Daniel had been forced to kill him himself. He'd gone on a week-long bender after that. And he'd stopped talking about the gun for a year.

Was it truth or myth? Daniel knew what John had been through. He couldn't think of a single reason for the man to lie to him, to wind him up about a weapon if it didn't exist. He thought the only reason Daniel was being so cagey about the damned thing was that he was afraid for his life, and he needed it for himself. Which was fair enough. But surely the man knew that John only needed to borrow the gun, use it once and he'd give it back. They'd been friends now for a lot of years.

The wide, chunky tyres roared over the asphalt and the throb of the engine kept time with his thoughts. He had to get the gun. He had to kill the demon before it could make good on its threats. He had to avenge his wife. He had to save his family. He had to end this.

* * *

_**White Rock, New Mexico**_

"You ready, Sam?" Dean looked at the clock on the wall, and picked up his canvas bag.

"Yep." Sam picked up the other bag and followed Dean out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

The moon had already risen, shedding a gentle silver light over the streets and houses and gardens, and Dean drove slowly to the house where the Marstons had lived, and one had died. The Black Album played softly on the tape deck, strangely more ominous at a low volume than when it was playing on full.

The house stood a little apart from the neighbours, on its own acre of grounds. In the moonlight it looked ordinary, a pleasantly designed two story home that had been popular in the early sixties. The garden was full of big trees, planted fifty years ago and grown to maturity, their wide canopies rustling with dead leaves and the grassy lawn covered with fallen drifts. The Indian summer that had dragged on into September was gone, and the air was brisk, promising frost before morning.

"Doesn't look so bad." Dean pulled into the drive and killed the lights, turning off the engine and leaving the car in gear with the brake on.

Sam nodded. "That's what we always say."

They got out and picked up the bags, and Dean opened the trunk, handing a shovel to his brother and pulling out one for himself. The drill was standard. They both dug until the grave got about waist deep. At that point Sam was on lookout and Dean kept digging. He no longer wondered about how that had come about. It was now just what they did.

Walking around the house, the strong moonlight lit the garden clearly and their flashlights stayed in the bags. Sam pointed to the vegetable garden, overrun now with weeds and shrubs, herbs and dying pumpkin vines, but recognisable by the trellis that still stood to hold the climbers, the picket fence that leaned this way and that, no longer keeping anything out. They climbed over the fence were the lean was particularly pronounced and looked around. It wasn't a very large garden, but the choices were still numerous, the many beds all equally likely candidates for graves.

Dean leaned on his shovel. "Awesome. Multiple choice."

"It gets better." Sam glanced at his brother. "Pretty sure that she wasn't put in a box for interment."

Dean looked at him. "This is going to take all freaking night."

"Yeah. We better get started." Sam moved to the corner of the garden, and starting pulling out the plants by the roots, tossing them over the fence. He kept going until he'd cleared a grave-sized section and started digging. Dean sighed and moved to the opposite corner, following his brother's example and clearing the plants away before driving his shovel into the ground and lifting out a mound of soil.

The soil was rich and black and soft, and the digging part was at least easy, he thought, shifting the flashlight beam to angle into the hole he was working on. It was still gonna take all night.

They worked up the fence lines, then shifted to the next row of beds and worked down again, digging to a depth of five or six feet before moving on to the next plot. They found potatoes, carrots, Swedes, turnips and parsnips, stands of sunflowers, rotted tomatoes, bushes of rosemary, sage, thyme, mint, parsley and cilantro, but no bones.

Dean had reached the other end of the garden when his shovel edge clinked slightly and he stopped digging, kneeling in the soft earth and grabbing the flashlight, sweeping the soft soil aside with his hand. The bones gleamed white under the beam of light, and he looked up over the edge of the grave at his brother, whistling a low two-tone signal.

Sam dropped his shovel, grabbing the salt and butane from the gear bag and walking fast to the hole. He set the bag and can along the lip of the grave and held his flashlight's beam steady on the patch of soil as his brother cleared more dirt away, pitching it to either side of the grave. The skeleton became visible gradually, ribs and spine first, then the big leg bones, the small bones of the feet scattered at the ends. The light picked up a golden gleam and Dean lifted the small locket free, opening it and squinting at the tiny sepia-toned and faded photographs held within. Two children, a boy and a girl took up each side of the locket. He looked up at Sam.

"Pretty sure we got the right place."

Sam nodded, then looked around. There was a rustling in the garden, the breeze picking up.

"Get moving, Dean. Something's happening up here."

Dean worked faster at clearing away the soil from the skull and arms, standing when he could see the entire skeleton and waving a hand at his brother.

"Salt."

He took the four-pound bag that Sam handed him and split the top, throwing the contents over the bones and soil. He dropped the empty bag into the grave and scrambled out, picking up the container of butane and squirting the liquid into the hole, the light from their flashlights glittering on the salt crystals and liquid.

Wind whistled through the trunks of the trees and swirled around them, filled with leaves and excavated dirt. They turned their heads away and closed their eyes as it whipped around them, driving the debris into their faces and showering them with it.

Dropping to a crouch beside the grave, his hand cupped around the matchbook, Dean lit a match, bending protectively over it as he threw it into the grave. The fumes of the lighter fluid caught instantly, despite the fine coating of leaf matter and dust, spreading across the skeleton and burning a clean, fierce yellow. Inside the hole, the fire lit up the skeleton, the interior of the grave, and the faces of the two young men who watched it.

"Rest in peace," Sam said softly. He had no warning of the force that shoved him violently to one side, throwing him across two of the partially dug-up garden beds into a tangle of vines. Dean spun around, eyes wide, his shotgun in his hand as his brother slowly picked up himself up and looked around warily.

"I got a bad feeling about this," Sam said unsteadily, looking around as he started to walk back to his brother.

"You and me both," Dean agreed, the barrel of the gun swinging at the cold that seemed to manifest beside him. His head jerked around he heard Sam's strangled grunt.

Sam felt hands gripping his jacket, almost lifting him off the ground and dragging him backwards.

"Dean!"

Dean swore, snatching up the gear bag at his feet and accelerating into a run as Sam was pulled through the broken fence and across the windswept grass. The distance was too wide between them for him to take a shot without hitting his brother as well. He raced across the leaf-covered lawn, soles slipping on the piles of dry leaves, skidding to a halt and standing over his brother when Sam was dropped and the wind died.

They looked around the garden, Sam climbing to his feet again.

"Think we might've missed something?" He rubbed his neck where the collar had been pressed against it.

"Yeah," Dean said sardonically. "I think so." He looked over his shoulder, back to the grave. "We have to get back there, get your gear."

"Uh, Dean?" Sam stared at the darkness near the corner of the house. "I don't think we're going to be allowed to do that."

Following his gaze, Dean saw the white shapes against the deep shadows. "Are there two of them?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He could see them, a boy and a girl, flickering against the dark side of the house. "I don't think the father took them with him."

Dean scowled as he forced himself over the possible options. The garden was exposed, the wind the spirits could control could too easily turn their circles of protection into nothing but a waste of salt.

"All right, we get into the house," he told Sam tightly. "Might be easier to find somewhere to defend ourselves, have something we can use in there."

"Do you think they're buried in the garden with their mother?" Sam looked back at the shovels, the gear bag that held the other shotgun. Dean glanced at the mess of the garden.

"I don't know. They weren't with the mother. " He turned back to look at the open ground between them and the pane-glass doors that seemed to open onto a patio. About sixty feet.

"Sam, when I say go, run for those doors. I'll cover you."

"Okay."

"Go!" Dean fired at the spirits and they disappeared. He turned and ran for the doors, feet sliding on the slimy moss on the tiled patio, crashing into the door frame and falling inside. Rolling to his feet, he saw his brother moving through the far doorway into another room, his heart slamming against his ribs at the thought of being separated with Sam weaponless.

"Sam, don't get too far ahead, dammit."

Sam stopped and they looked around the empty room warily. There was nothing in it that could help, and it had too many access doors and windows to be defendable. Dean turned back and looked down the hallway the other way. He touched Sam's shoulder.

"I think the kitchen is that way."

They walked slowly down the hallway, Dean covering the area ahead of them, Sam walking sideways to keep an eye on what was behind them.

The kitchen door stood open, and they moved inside cautiously. Two doors led off from the room, a half-glass door that led to the back yard, and a solid door. Dean walked over to the solid door, turning the knob and pushing it open. Stairs led down into darkness.

"Basement," he was turning as he spoke, and felt the temperature drop suddenly, his breath fogging in front of his mouth, saw the shapes appear behind his brother, next to the window.

"Down."

Sam dropped to the floor, rolling toward Dean as fast he could as the shotgun boomed above him. The spirits disappeared but flickered toward them a second later, from the other side this time. Dean swung the barrel around and fired again, the noise of the gun loud in the confined space.

He dropped to the floor and pulled a bag of salt from the duffle. "Sam, basement."

Backing after his brother, he pushed the door shut and laid a line of salt across the top step. He pulled out his lighter, holding the small flame above his head, as he followed Sam carefully down the stairs.

Sam looked around the large room. To one side, an ancient furnace filled almost half the space, cut off pipes protruding from the main tank. The remaining area was mostly clear, a few shelves, a long workbench, a stack of old logs under the outside access doors. They walked to the doors and Sam climbed awkwardly over the logs, pushing his hands against the doors. He looked down at Dean, shaking his head.

"Locked from the outside, I think."

"That's just peachy. We're stuck in here."

* * *

_**Manning, Colorado.**_

John pulled up in front of Daniel's house at two o'clock, stopping behind the pickup that was parked there. He got out and walked stiffly up the steps to the door. Before he could knock, it opened, Daniel standing aside to let him in.

"Long time, John."

"Daniel, I don't have time to say this nicely. I need that gun, and I need it now." John turned to face him, his voice rough.

"John, I told you, I don't know where –"

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"No, it ain't. I've given you every lead I've come across and I –"

"Daniel, you've sent me on wild goose chases all over the country. I've followed those 'leads', I know that they were bullshit. Please, I have to have that gun." He stepped toward the other man.

"I can't help you, John. I don't have it. I don't know where it is." Daniel looked at him straight, then turned away, walking down the hall to the kitchen.

John closed his eyes in frustration, and turned, his hand flashing out to grab Daniel's arm as he passed.

"The demon, Daniel, it's coming after my boys. I am begging you, I need that gun." He stared into Daniel's face, knowing the vulnerability he was showing, no longer caring. "It's going to kill them unless I kill it first."

Daniel looked at him for a long moment. "John, I understand how you're feeling, I do. And if I had the gun I would give it to you right now, I swear I would. I don't have it. You just have to believe me on that."

"I don't. You know where it is, Daniel. It's your ace, against Luther." John let go of the man's arm, his hand dropping to his side. "I don't want to keep it, you sonofabitch, I just need to use it. I'll bring it back."

Daniel shook his head sadly. "I don't have it. I don't know where it is."

"Goddamn you!" John grabbed him by the jacket, staring into his eyes. "These are my kids you're playing with – my children! Give me the fucking gun, Daniel, or tell me where it is!"

Daniel stood still for a moment then stepped forward suddenly into John, the movement unexpected enough for John's hands to loosen their grip slightly. Daniel twisted away from him, his elbow driving for John's ribs as he turned.

John felt the bone drive into his ribcage and tried to move back, ride the blow. His fist swung out automatically, taking Daniel high on the cheekbone as the older hunter staggered back.

"Help me, damn you," John growled, advancing on Elkins. The hunter's hand flicked and there was a click and he was looking into the big bore of a .45 S&W automatic, Daniel's finger on the trigger, blood trickling slowly down the side of his face from the split over his cheek.

"John, get out of my house." Daniel levelled the gun. John looked at it for a moment, then back up to Daniel's face.

"If they die, I'm coming back for you, Daniel. Fair warning," he said slowly.

Daniel nodded. "Take a number. Now, get in your car and get off my place, John. We're done here, you understand me?"

John turned away, opening the front door and walking out. He got back into the truck and reversed it, then turned and drove out, back onto the road. His hands were shaking, jerking the wheel, and he pulled in a deep breath, trying to still the fear that flooded his nervous system, chilling him from the inside out.

Whether Daniel was lying or not, he wouldn't help now. Another contact gone. Another friendship gone. And he still had no way to kill the demon or to protect his boys.

He drove a little faster, letting the speedometer creep up to seventy. They were alone, and while he _knew_ that the demon didn't know where they were, he was becoming increasingly more nervous about them being by themselves.

* * *

_**White Rock, New Mexico**_

Dean pulled out the bag of salt and handed it up to Sam. "See anywhere you can lay down a line?"

The doors were set at an angle to the ceiling and there were no ledges. Sam shook his head, climbing down the unstable pile of logs.

Walking slowly around the basement, Sam shone the beam of the flashlight over everything as his brother reloaded the shotgun. A few lengths of pipe leaned up against one wall, but he shook his head. They were copper, left over from the furnace installation. The place was empty. Even the shelving was wooden.

"What kind of people don't have a few bits of iron lying around?"

The temperature in the room began to drop. Dean stopped what he was doing as his breath became visible, lifting the barrel of the shotgun, turning slowly. They backed up toward the wall; Sam crouched under his brother's line of fire, dragging the bag after him.

The room felt like a deep freeze by the time the spirits manifested and they saw them. The two children, a boy and a girl, dark-haired and clothed in tattered rags, holding hands as they approached the brothers. Sam sucked in a sharp breath as he saw the wounds on them, heard Dean's muttered curse.

They vanished. The temperature didn't change and Dean glowered around the room, his finger curled around the trigger of the gun. He hated seeing the effects of people's cruelty to each other, his fury at what had been done to the two children warring with the need to protect his brother from them.

"Sammy? Make a circle."

Sam grunted, pulling the bag out and hunkering down, tipping the salt in a wide curve around him. He was duckwalking around behind Dean, three-quarters done when the spirits manifested again, this time on top of him.

Dean swung around, seeing his brother lifted off his feet and flung across the length of the room to hit the wall on the other side. The shotgun's barrel tracked the spirits smoothly and fired, and they disappeared.

"Sam!" He ran across the room, relief washing through him as he saw Sam straighten up against the wall, rubbing the back of his head. "You okay?"

"Behind you!"

Dean spun around, feeling a rush of air past him, deep cold, then nothing. Sam sat up abruptly, his hair mussed by a vagrant air, his elbow banging into the wall behind him. The sound was hollow, and he frowned, turning to it, holding the light so that the beam shone obliquely across the surface. Where his arm had struck, he could see cracks in the rough plaster that coated the drywall. He dug at it, finding an edge.

"Dean, there's something here," he said softly, finding a second edge perpendicular to the first. "A hole, or a door."

"So dear old dad didn't bury them with their mother?" Dean's eyes scanned the room constantly, looking for the spirits, looking for anything that moved. The temperature hadn't risen, they were still down here, waiting.

"Maybe not." Sam found the third edge, and pulled at it with his fingertips, feeling the piece move slightly.

Dean looked across the room at the bag, containing more shells, at the salt, the circle almost finished, the sack tipped over and spilling … everything they needed. He glanced over his shoulder at his brother.

Sam forced his fingers under the edge, yanking at it suddenly. The piece came away, behind it a square of darkness. He rolled onto his knees, picking up the flashlight again, bending down to look inside.

Dean felt the arctic air moving, swirling and spiralling around him, his breath crystallising in front of his mouth. "Sam, watch out, they're on the move again."

Sam's head snapped as he felt the steel grip of small hands on his arms, his coat. He was icy cold, his chest frozen. His fingers scrabbled against the smooth wall as he felt himself lifted, higher this time, twisting his body wildly against the grip but there was nothing to hit, nothing to fight against and he was flying through air across the room, a flashing glimpse of his brother below him, mouth open in a cry. He hit something, and felt a sharp pain in his chest, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't get the air in and out of his lungs, they felt thick and heavy, he could feel liquid filling his throat, coming out of his mouth and the pain was getting worse, it was filling his chest, agony ripping through him as he kept trying to breathe.

Dean watched in horror as Sam was picked up and thrown across the room, hitting the furnace with a ringing clang, then hanging there, red seeping out from the hole in his chest where the protruding pipe had punched through. He heard a scream, not realising it was coming from his throat until his breath ran out and it stopped. When he reached the furnace, the shotgun clattered to the floor, his hands unable to keep their grip on it as he watched blood bubbling from Sam's mouth and nose, his brother's eyes half-closed but unseeing. Distantly, he was aware that he was talking, that the temperature hadn't changed, that he needed to get the bag, reload the shotgun, get the salt but he couldn't move, couldn't take his eyes off the four inches of blood-red pipe that stuck out of Sam's chest like a gruesome handle.

He came back to himself with a snap, whipping around and getting the bag, the salt and the gun from the floor. He was moving fast, pouring the salt into a wide circle; it had to be big enough to hold Sam, head to foot, when he got him down. When it was done, he threw the half-full bag toward the hole in the wall.

He couldn't see properly, his vision blurred and wavering and he wiped furiously at his eyes, clearing them for long enough to see where he had to lift, where he had to support his brother to get him off, get him down. His muscles bunched and tightened as he took Sam's weight, his eyes shut tightly as he pulled his brother forward by feel, hating the tugging as the pipe snagged, breathing deeply to keep his concentration on what he was doing, because he knew, he knew that if he lost that concentration now he was going to fall to pieces, he would fall apart and then they would both die.

The dead weight of his brother fell forward onto him and he sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob, lowering Sam gently to the floor, inside the salt circle. He checked the edges to make sure he hadn't broken it and dropped to his knees beside Sam, rolling him onto his side.

He swallowed hard when he saw the entrance wound on his brother's back, under the ribs, angled upward. The hole was ragged and bleeding freely, the cloth of Sam's jacket and shirt pushed inside.

_Gotta get that out first_, he thought, and his jaw clenched as he pulled the material back out, making a low sucking noise as it came free. His hand scrabbled in the canvas bag next to him for the first aid kit, opening the dressings one handed as he supported Sam's weight with the other arm. He put the foil packaging against the hole, sealing the edges, and laid the gauze dressing over the top. He could hear the gurgling in Sam's chest as the air continued to leak out from the other side.

He wasn't aware of the tears that were streaming down his face, or the fear that was filling him, vein by vein, as if his blood was being replaced by ice water. Easing Sam back toward him, he ripped the buttons from his shirt and pulled out his knife to cut through the t-shirt that was beneath. The exit wound was smaller, but the blood that flowed from it was filled with bubbles and at the sight of them he felt himself shivering uncontrollably, his hands trembling.

_Jesus, get your shit together or he's gonna die_. He reached for another dressing, ripping it open with his teeth, laying the sterilised inside of the foil packaging over the hole and pressing it firmly against the edges, then putting the gauze dressing over that. Sam started to cough, a wracking, gargling cough that sprayed blood over the floor, more running from his nose.

_Pressure_, Dean thought, pushing aside the wrapped dressings for a wide bandage. _Needs pressure on it_. He peeled Sam's jacket and the two sides of the shirt apart, pushing them above the wound, and lifted his brother's shoulders, horribly aware with every move that he could be making things worse. There was no fucking choice in the matter, he shook the thought off despairingly, he had to get Sam out of there and he couldn't let his brother bleed out while he did it.

He wrapped the wide bandage around Sam's chest, as tightly as he could and fixing the end with a butterfly clip one-handed, hearing the whistle and gurgle fade away as the foil was sucked in on either side. The blood needed to drain, he thought, struggling to remember what he knew about lung punctures, and he shifted around, rolling Sam slowly over onto his left side, wedging the heavy gear bag against his back to keep him in position.

Wiping the blood from his brother's mouth and nose, Dean laid his fingers against the artery in his neck. Sam's pulse leapt against his fingertips, a little thready now, but still beating regularly. His phone was in the car. He closed his eyes, sitting back on his heels, trying to think, think what he should do. He couldn't make the run to the car with Sam while the spirits were still around. They'd attack. He looked over his shoulder at the hole in the wall. If they were in there, he could probably salt and burn them. Sam would be safe in the circle.

His peripheral vision picked up a movement and he looked around, seeing the spirits solidly manifesting by the hole. He looked at them, feeling his anger growing, displacing the cold fear in his body with heat. His hand reached for the shotgun and he fired it at them, the rounds dissipating them. It wouldn't last long. They'd be back. He had to get this done.

He reloaded the gun and picked up the remains of the salt and the squeeze bottle of butane, shoving them into the wide pockets of his coat. The flashlight was still by the hole where Sam had dropped it. The beam lit up the side of the wall, a part of the hole. Dean looked down at Sam briefly, seeing the left side of his chest rising and falling slowly. _Stay alive, Sam, please just stay alive until I burn those little fuckers_.

Turning and rising in the one flowing motion, he went fast across the room, grabbing the flashlight as he slid up to the wall and diving inside the hole without a moment's hesitation. He shone the beam around the void, his gaze passing over the joists and foundations pillars. He was still under the house, he realised, but this part of the basement had been shut off, the floor was dirt, the walls unlined. The air got colder and he hurried forward, looking for signs of digging, or the gleam of bones, anything that would tell him where the children had been buried or left.

Time pressed at him, ticking away, and with it his brother's chances of survival. He swore under his breath as he dropped to a crouch, ducking his head as the space became shallower and the air got colder and colder. The light played over the dry soil and picked up a gleam on the far side. Dean focussed on it, registering the torn and crumpled plastic sheets a second later. He crabbed toward it, dropping under the joists and switching to a fast crawl, the flashlight steadily showing more as he got closer. The plastic had held the bodies, vermin chewing through it over the years and leaving the two skeletons in tumbled disarray, side by side. His chest hitched as his relief came out as a sob, and he crawled up to them, throwing the remaining salt over them and tossing the bag aside, pulling the can of lighter fluid from his pocket and squirting it heavily over the top, holding his breath against the strong fumes in the closed area.

A directionless wind ruffled his hair and his head snapped around, seeing the children standing and watching him, their faces blank and empty. Edging around their remains, Dean pulled out his lighter, lifting the shotgun with his other hand. As the flame leapt up, they came for him, together and very fast. He dropped the lighter onto the bones and rocked backward, boots furrowing the soft soil as he pushed himself back from the bones and the fire and the two murdered children. The butane caught and flames erupted in front of him. The spirits stopped as the ghostly fire flashed through them, then were gone.

He wormed his way around the charred bones and crawled back toward the hole, springing to his feet as soon as the headroom improved. Squirming through and shaking off the dirt as he came out the other side, Dean felt his mouth dry as he shot across the basement to his brother.

In the circle Sam was still breathing, but more blood had trickled from his mouth and nose, and his heart was slower. _Shock_, Dean thought. He was about to pick him up when he realised that he needed to get the car closer, leave the door open, he didn't want to be picking Sam and putting him down out in the cold night air. There was a blanket in the back, he should bring that in, wrap his brother in it. He ran for the stairs, and up them, through the kitchen and out into the yard, his chest heaving as he forced himself to move faster, to ignore the ragged ache in his muscles, the fear that was constricting his airways.

Driving the Impala almost to the back door, he left the engine running, throwing himself out of the car and opening the rear door wide, reaching in to grab the blanket from the back seat.

He raced back into the house and down into the basement, feeling his heart pounding somewhere near the base of his throat, the fear getting stronger. Every time he left Sam, the terror that his brother would be dead when he returned got stronger and stronger and this time was no different. Dropping to his knees beside Sam, he checked again that his little brother was still breathing, his heart still beating, and he wrapped the blanket around him, getting an arm under Sam's shoulders, the other under his knees and lifting him slowly. He climbed the stairs from the basement, going sideways through the door slowly and carefully, locking out the screams in his head that he was running out of time, that he couldn't make it, and overruling the violent trembling in his body as he crossed the kitchen and manoeuvred his way through the back door to the car. He had to climb into the car with his brother still in his arms to minimise the movement and his back and shoulders and neck were screaming agonisingly at him by the time he managed to settle Sam on his side against the back seat.

He slithered out backwards and shut the rear door, sucking in a deep breath of the cool night air as he ran to the driver's side and threw himself into the seat. His foot hit the accelerator, hands spinning the wheel and the tyres slid on the damp grass before biting in.

* * *

John glanced at his watch tiredly. Almost nine. He pulled into the motel parking lot, looking around for the Impala and frowning. They should have been done with the job by now. He shut off the engine and got out, locking the door and walking to the room.

Switching on the lights when he entered the room, he looked around. The gear bags were gone. A thread of unease trickled down his spine. Even if they'd had a bit of trouble finding the remains, they shouldn't have taken this long. Could've gone for a meal, he told himself, walking across the room to the table.

The file still lay open there, and he looked at it, picking up his keys again and going back outside to the truck. It didn't take him long to get to the house, and he drove the truck up the driveway, uncaring of what the neighbours thought. The truck's headlights picked out the cut up turf and tyre tracks over the grass and the thread of unease deepened abruptly into a cold sensation that filled his chest. He left the engine running and jumped out of the truck, running around the side of the house.

In the clear, strong moonlight, he saw the opened bag and shovels in the half-enclosed garden to his right, his gaze taking in the broken stretch of fencing and boot prints left in the soft soil as he kept on to the house, picking up the trail of his sons' tracks to the patio doors. _Something had happened_.

He ran into the kitchen, seeing the open door to the basement. Pulling out his flashlight, he turned it on and walked cautiously down the stairs, playing the beam around the empty room when he reached the bottom.

The smell of gunpowder hung on the cold, still air. John looked at the hole in the wall, his gaze travelling slowly to the big salt circle on the floor, still with Dean's canvas bag, shotgun and open first aid kit inside it. He stared at the first aid kit for a long moment, then strode forward, shoving the kit and shotgun into the bag, and picking it up. Something bad had happened, he thought, his eyes skating over the pool of blood on the floor inside the circle, the shell casings that littered the ground. He was turning and running before he'd realised he'd moved, back up the stairs and through the kitchen, vaulting the leaning fence into the garden, and grabbing the bag and shovels from beside the open grave, the bags banging and clanking against his legs as he accelerated toward the truck. The shovels clattered as he threw them into the back, shoving the two bags over the console and onto the passenger seat and swinging into the driver's seat in the same, breathless, jerky motion. Reversing the truck back down onto the road, the tyres howled and smoked when he spun the wheel and put it into first, stamping on the accelerator and shifting up fast.

* * *

Dean sat in the waiting room, numb and cold. Sam had been taken to an operating room. He couldn't get the image of his brother's face out of his mind. His skin had been dusky, somewhere between mauve and grey, his lips blue as he'd carried him into the ER. Sam's eyes had been half-open, looking from side to side restlessly but apparently not seeing him, or not recognising him, he wasn't sure which.

The seriousness with which the on-call doctors had reacted had been more frightening. He'd had a lot of experience with emergency rooms, and he'd seen doctors treat the most horrific wounds with a lack of excitement that would make a sloth look hyperactive. But when they'd seen Sam … he'd been taken away immediately, his clothing cut off, the dressings removed, blood suctioned away … two doctors and two nurses had been with him, leaving no room in the bay for anyone else and he'd been left in the corridor, hearing the terse commands of the doctors and the beeping and humming of the machines they'd hooked up to Sam, his need to do something churning impotently inside of him.

He looked up as one of nurses came back down the hall toward him. He thought she was going to walk straight past him, but she stopped, looking down at him.

"The doctors are doing everything they can," she said quietly, and he felt his heart sinking. "The dressings you put on probably saved his life. He'll be out of surgery in a few moments and we'll be moving him into the ICU for a few days."

He nodded. "When can I see him?"

"An hour or so. There's a bathroom in the staff office, if you want to wash up. The coffee in there is better than the vending machine stuff too." She gestured down the hall. "I'll come and get you when he's been settled, alright?"

"Thanks." He looked down at the floor again, feeling his heart slow down, his breathing get a bit deeper. He was okay, he would be okay now.

She walked away, and he leaned back against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. They hadn't done their homework properly. They should have established for sure that the father had taken the children, not just assumed it because none of the town legends had mentioned them.

He heard heavy footsteps coming up toward him fast and opened his eyes, turning his head.

John strode up the hall to him, chest tightening as he saw his son's face, covered in dirt and grime, save where his tears had left clean tracks, his expression haunted.

"Where's Sammy?"

Dean looked away. "He's in surgery. He should be out soon, they'll take him to the ICU."

"What happened?" John sat down in the chair next to Dean, seeing the intolerable strain his son had been under, visible in the thrum of the tension that Dean was repressing as well as he could.

"The father ganked the kids too. Left the bodies under the house. We were in the basement, thought that would be the easiest to defend, but their remains were down there too. They picked up Sam and … threw him …" Dean stopped for a moment, his throat working as the memory returned too vividly. "Threw him against the furnace. There were … pipes, uh, cut off pipes sticking out of it, and … h-h-he… hit one. It went … it w-went through his chest, punctured the lung."

John closed his eyes. The terse narrative left out all the real details. The details that Dean wouldn't voluntarily offer. Trying to protect his brother. Getting Sam out. His fear. Burning the remains. The grief and anguish of not knowing if his brother would live. The drive to the hospital with everything resting on him, his brother's life hanging on him.

He looked at his son. Dean sat hunched over, staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left."

"No. You shouldn't." The quiet, husked out voice didn't sound like Dean's at all. He stood up unsteadily, and turned to look down at his father, his eyes dark and accusing. "I could have killed him, all that moving around, doing it by myself, I could have killed him."

"But you didn't," John said softly. "You saved him."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and John saw his eyes become very bright, the Adam's apple moving convulsively in his son's throat as he struggled with the memory and emotion filling him. Then he turned away and walked up the hall, disappearing into a doorway.

John leaned forward, resting his head against his hands. There was no doubt in his mind that he couldn't have done any better than his oldest boy had, getting Sammy out of there alive. He was equally sure that Dean would never believe that. Would resist believing that, no matter how often or how vehemently he was told.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Dean wouldn't forgive him for this. Not readily. Maybe not at all. He was getting kind of used to seeing disappointment in Sam's eyes. He couldn't face seeing it in the eyes of his eldest son. He realised how much he'd come to depend on seeing that steadfast belief in Dean's gaze, from when he'd been just a little kid, the wide green eyes looking up into his with complete faith, complete love.

He sighed. No one was infallible. Maybe it was time that Dean realised that his father was just as flawed as everyone else. Maybe it was time that he told him that.

Dean came out fifteen minutes later. John looked up as he walked up to him, holding out a cup of coffee.

"Thanks." He took the cardboard container, sliding a sideways look at his son as Dean sat down beside him. The dirt was gone, his hair slightly damp and sticking up from a wash. He was holding another cup and drinking it slowly.

John could see the shadows, like bruises, under Dean's eyes, the hollows in his face that hadn't been there in the morning. He drank the coffee and let the silence between them grow.

* * *

The nurse led them up to the ICU an hour later. Sam lay on the bed, still and white, an oxygen mask covering his face, tubes and monitor wires snaking over and around him, surrounded by machines that were humming, beeping or flashing. Dean walked gingerly to the side of the bed, looking down at his little brother. On the other side of the bed John's gaze flicked between the monitors and the faces of his sons, as worried about the one standing as he was about the one lying still on the bed.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat, and Dean and John turned together to look at him.

"I'm, uh, Dr Ryan." He looked down at Sam. "I did the surgery on your son's lung." He looked back at the two men, one young and the other older, who stood on opposites of his patient's bed. Both faced him, their expressions identically intense, and he felt a disconcerting frisson of fear slither up his spine.

"He needs to be in here for about four days, we want to make sure that there are no complications – at this stage the possibility of a trauma pneumothorax is unfortunately high; we also need to ensure that he can breathe properly, that there is no subsequent infection from either the original trauma or the surgery." The doctor rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "The pain meds we've got him on are not strong. We can't give him NSAIDs until he's breathing fully on his own because they depress the respiratory system. So he will be in pain, the non-narcotic pain meds we are giving him are not strong enough to deal fully with it. You need to understand that there's nothing we can do about that right now."

John glanced at Dean and saw his son's face pale a little. It wasn't going to be easy for either of them, he thought.

"At the end of the week, if he's improved enough, he'll be moved to the ward for the next four to five weeks. We have an excellent respiratory therapist here and the pulmonologist will be here in the morning. He's young, which is a big help. He's going to recover."

John nodded. "Thanks."

"There'll be a nurse checking his oxygen, heart and BP every ten minutes. You can stay, but he'll be out for at least another hour or two, so it might be a better idea to get some rest while you can." He looked at Dean, who ignored him. John's mouth tucked in at the corners as he repressed a smile.

Dr Ryan turned his head to look at John. "Your son did a very good job on the first aid, Mr Borzyszkowy. His brother wouldn't be alive now if he hadn't."

John shot another glance at Dean, wondering if he'd even heard that. Dean's attention seemed to be solely on his brother, his face tight.

He looked down at Sam. "We'll stay a bit longer."

Ryan shrugged and walked away.

Walking around the bed, John picked up a chair from the wall, setting it down beside Dean. He carried another one to the other side of the bed and sat down. After a moment, Dean looked around and dropped into the chair, leaning his elbow on the side of the bed.

John watched his son's eyelids flutter down and then snap up again. The third time they stayed shut and he settled back into the chair, his gaze moving between them, watching them sleep.

* * *

Sam blew into the tube steadily, the little balls maintaining their position at the tops of the tubes, held up by the force of his breath.

"Good. That was good, Sam." Dr Perez smiled at him, noting the time on her chart. "I think that's about it, kiddo. You can go."

"Yeah?" Sam turned to his brother and grinned.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Finally."

Sam got up and walked back to his room, leaning on the walking stick with Dean close on his heels. John watched them go. He turned back to Dr Perez.

"So, what's the story?"

She looked at him, one brow raised. "He's good. Lung capacity is increasing daily, he should keep up with the exercises for as long as possible though. His blood pressure and breathing are completely within normal parameters. He's fine."

"For heavy physical exercise?"

"Sure, so long as he takes it slow getting back into it. The rest of him will need that anyway."

Nodding, John said, "Thanks."

He walked out of the room and down to the ward.

Their boots crunched on the thin crust of snow that lay over the ground. Christmas had come and gone while Sam was in hospital and the cold January air was a test for his lungs. He coughed a couple of times, then was more careful about his breathing, taking the cold air in slowly, laughing a little at his older brother's concerned expression.

"Even you cough in the cold when you've come from a warm house, Dean."

"I don't have matching insignia on my lungs, bro."

The Sierra and the Impala were parked side by side in the nearly empty lot. John walked to the Sierra and opened the door, waiting for Sam. But Sam went around to the passenger side of the Impala, shrugging as he caught his father's eye. John looked at Dean, who carefully did not look back. He watched them as they got into the Impala and Dean started the engine, climbing into the truck, and giving the truck some time to warm up before following his sons back to the motel.

* * *

_**Blue Earth, Minnesota**_

Jim looked at John thoughtfully. He understood the man's desperation, his fear.

"Daniel's hunted too, you know John."

"Yeah, I know. I told him I didn't want to keep the goddamned thing." John looked away.

"What makes you so sure that he does have it? Or that he knows where it is?"

"Because all those leads he's given me have panned out to nothing. Worse than nothing. I can't find any supporting evidence that the gun was ever in those places." He looked at Jim. "Why would that be unless Daniel was trying to give the appearance of helping, without really helping? And why would he do that if he wasn't trying to throw me off the track of where the gun really is?"

Jim nodded. "Either way, Daniel's running scared now. There are only three vampire hunters left, of the older generation. Luther's been thorough."

John shrugged. "We'll keep moving around. I'll find something else."

"Are you still having the dreams?"

"No." John smiled at his friend ruefully. "Using the dreamcatcher again."

* * *

Sam was at school. Dean was under the car, changing the oil, when John came around the side of the house looking for him.

"Just about done?"

There was a short silence. "Yeah. Just about."

John settled himself on a log, prepared to wait. His son had barely spoken to him in the last two months, it was time they had it out.

Dean wriggled out and rolled onto his elbow, looking up at his father. He recognised the set look on his dad's face. They were going to have a discussion. He put away the tools and wiped his hands on a rag, trying to think of anything he could come up with avoid it.

John watched him fussing around the engine of the car. He stood up and walked over to him, turning to lean against the front of the Impala.

"I'm just as capable of fucking up as the next man, Dean," he said quietly. "I can make bad decisions, or follow a bad judgement. I'm not perfect and I'm not infallible."

Dean's lips compressed. He kept his eyes on the tools in front of him, wiping each one down and replacing it in the toolbox.

"I know you're disappointed. And I'm sorry about that, sorry that I couldn't be as reliable as you needed me to be." John sighed, looking away at the bare woods that surrounded them. He found himself wishing he could tell his son about the demon – the whole story about the demon – but that was a selfish desire, to share the burden he carried, to have someone else to discuss it with. He'd have to tell Dean sometime, but not now, not yet. Let him keep his hope for a few more years.

He turned his head, looking at his son's stony profile. He wasn't sure what else he could say, how to apologise for those minutes that he thought had aged Dean far more thoroughly than either of them was prepared to admit. Nodding slightly, he straightened up and walked away, back toward the house.

"Dad."

John stopped and turned around. Dean stood by the car, looking at him, his expression uncertain.

"I, uh, was mad at you for not being there, not taking charge, telling me what to do." He looked down. "Guess I wasn't ready to take on the responsibility as well as I thought."

He drew in a deep breath, his mouth curling down derisively as he looked back at his father. John watched him square his shoulders, recognised the decision to admit to something that he found almost impossible to share. "I was scared, Dad," he said with a brutally blunt honesty, his voice cracking high for the first time in a long time. "I was so fucking scared that I was going to lose him on my watch, my job."

John felt his throat closing, his gaze dropping to the ground for a long moment. He knew how his son had felt. He felt that same razor-keen fear on every hunt they accompanied him. The line between life and death in their world was very fine. One mistake and not all the regret in the world could bring anyone back.

Lifting his head, he cleared his throat, nodding as he forced the words out. "Yeah, I know, son. Every time you boys come with me, I'm scared to death. Comes with the territory."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not ready for that."

"You are," John said slowly, reluctant to face it, but it was here, already. Had been here for a while, he thought. "But it's hard, it's a hard deal, Dean."

He walked back to him. "You did everything I would have done, you know?"

Looking up, Dean's tone was doubtful as he asked, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," John said firmly, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly without humour. "You did good, Dean. Real good."

John watched as his son nodded awkwardly and looked away, saw him swallow, his shoulders hunch a little higher. He put his hand on his son's shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly.

"I couldn't have done any better."

* * *

_"Kids lose everything unless there's someone there to look out for them"_

_~ Chris, Stand By Me_


	21. Chapter 21 Undertow

**Chapter 21 Undertow**

* * *

_**May 30, 2000. Sedona, Arizona.**_

Sam looked around the moving throng of students, teachers, families and friends, searching for his father and brother. The ceremony would be starting in ten minutes and he couldn't see them, couldn't even see the car or the truck in the parking lot. He felt his heart sink.

"Where're your folks, Sam?" Tammy Miller looked up at him curiously, pushing her auburn hair back from her face with one hand. Sam shrugged, turning away, heading back to the stands where they'd be sitting until it was time to get their diplomas.

Why was he surprised? Upset? Feeling anything at all? He should be so used to this. This was classic Winchester family behaviour. It was a school thing. Therefore, unimportant. Just his graduation. What the hell. Dean had actually laughed about not having to go to his, since he'd dropped out six months early to hunt with Dad.

This was one of the reasons they'd spent the last two months here, in Sedona. So that the school could get all the results from the thousands of schools he'd attended over the years in one place and decide if he'd actually be able to graduate. Of course the other – more important – reason was that his father needed to do some research. Huh.

He hunched over his seat, staring out at his classmates, surrounded by their families, in most cases by _all_ of their families it looked like, and their friends, everyone laughing and smiling, everyone dressed in their best … everyone living a normal life.

Oh. Except him.

* * *

He walked up the steps to the porch and put his key in the lock. The house was a rental, but it had three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, which had made living here a lot more pleasant than most of their accommodation, especially their recent accommodation. The hallway was dim and cool, and he went straight to his room, dumping his books and bag on the floor and flopping on to the bed.

Twenty minutes later he heard the screen door slam, and the heavy stomp of boots in the hall.

"Sammy? You home?" Dean's voice called out. He ignored it, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. He felt entitled to sulk for a few hours. If he thought it would do any good. Chances were, no one would notice. He sighed.

His bedroom door opened and his unwilling glance at the sound showed his brother standing in the doorway, a bottle of beer in one hand, one brow lifted questioningly. "Lost the ability to speak?"

Sam grunted in response.

"Dad's gone down to Phoenix. He'll be back in a week or so. What do you want for dinner?" Dean propped himself against the doorway.

Sam sat up slowly, feeling a slow burn starting in his chest. "Oh, he went down to Phoenix today? So _today_ he just decided to go? And what's your excuse?"

Dean looked at him, brows drawing together. "What are you talking about?"

"Graduation. I'm talking about graduation. Which I did. Today."

A guilty expression flashed across his brother's face, almost too quick to see. "Crap, that was _today_? Gee, man, I'm sorry, I just totally forgot."

Sam turned away. "Yeah. You and Dad. What convenient memories you both have."

"Come on, Sammy, it's not like they handed you a Nobel Prize or anything. Most people graduate from high school." He looked at his brother's back. "How 'bout we go out tonight? You know, celebrate? I'll buy the booze."

"No." Sam closed his eyes.

Dean walked into the room and around the bed, looking at his brother's mulish expression. "Lighten up, Sam, okay? It's been a crappy day."

"Just go away."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, then he shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

He turned abruptly and walked out of the room and Sam heard him rummaging around the kitchen for a few minutes, then silence, then the TV was turned on.

So much for family and brotherly love, he thought sourly.

* * *

Dean sprawled across the couch, his boots hanging off the arm, technically not on the couch itself. He was facing the TV, his eyes were open, but he wasn't watching it. Barely even taking in the images that flashed across the screen, the sounds that came from the speakers.

He was reliving the fight with his father. The fight that happened two hours ago, in Prescott. Reliving it in glorious Technicolor with Dolby DTS surround sound. Not the whole thing, just the highlights, those standout moments that echo around the brain forever.

"_Dad, come on, this thing, what you're learning, what you've found out, it's eating you alive, you need help, let me help you," he'd pleaded, looking at the grim expression on his father's face, the lines that had become etched there since last year, maybe longer, he couldn't tell anymore._

"_You can't help me!" His father's voice, cracking, hoarse. His father's face, twisting in revulsion, his eyes dark with some emotion that Dean couldn't decipher. The next second that expression, that was seared into his brain, was gone, and John's face was cold and hard and unyielding. "I don't want your help, Dean. I don't need your help."_

_He'd turned away, before his father saw the pain, the denial felt as if it had left a handprint across his face._

"_Get back to Sedona, look after your brother. Stay with him, Dean. You make damned sure that the two of you stay together, that's your job. That's what you can help me with."_

He'd nodded, and left, and the conversation – the fight – the repulsion – had played over and over again in his head the whole drive back, and here it was again now, effortlessly overriding tonight's programming to make him feel like … like … nothing … again.

He finished the beer and took the bottle to the kitchen, chucking it into the trash can on the way to the refrigerator to get another. Glancing in the direction of Sam's room, he wondered if he should try again with his brother, but if he was really, really honest with himself, he couldn't face any more rejections today.

He walked back to the living room and opened the beer, hungry now, but without any motivation to do anything about it. He stretched out on the couch again and tried to watch the TV, tried to drown out the voices in his head.

* * *

_**May 31, 2000**_

Sam woke early, before dawn. He dressed quickly and moved silently around his bedroom, packing up what he needed, what he wanted to take. He had six hundred dollars, accumulated slowly from summer jobs, odd jobs, a little pool hustling with his brother, and that would keep him well enough until he could find a job, earn some steady money. He peeled a hundred from the roll, put it into his pocket, and tucked the rest into a sock in his duffle.

Picking the bag up, he opened his door slowly enough that it didn't creak, and looked cautiously up and down the hall. Dean's room was on the other side, a little way up. He debated checking to see if he was there, asleep, then decided against it. His brother was already too well-trained to miss the sound of a door close to him opening, and would almost certainly wake. Grabbing his sneakers, he walked down the hall instead.

Next to the front door, he put the sneakers on, tying the laces quickly and looked around the house once more. It was quiet and still. With his father away, Dean likely to sleep for another couple of hours at least and he wasn't going to get a better time or opportunity. Taking the jacket from the coat rack beside the door, he pulled it on. He opened the door and slipped out, closing it quietly behind him.

He walked down the road to the end of the cul de sac, then crossed the scrubby land and sparse woods that lay between the end of the road and route 89A. He climbed up to the shoulder and starting walking north, the sky brilliantly lit overhead as the sun rose, the air fresh and clean. He felt excited and scared at the same time. Running away at seventeen, what a joke. The mocking thought made him smile.

He'd walked about two miles when a truck pulled over beside him. As he slowed and glanced in through the wound-down window, he recognised Milo Haventz, he'd played a little soccer with his son over the last month. Milo recognised him as well.

"You need a lift, Sam?" The rancher leaned out of his window. "Going up to Flagstaff."

"Yeah, thanks Mr Haventz, that's where I'm headed."

"Jump in."

Sam tossed the duffle into the tray and climbed in the passenger side. Too easy, just too easy.

It was only thirty miles to Flagstaff, and when Sam got out of the truck, waving to Milo as he pulled away, the sun had only just crested the horizon. He looked at his watch, registering the time with a laugh. Six-forty. Dean still wouldn't be awake for another hour at the earliest. And he was already here. He grinned and walked down the street, stopping at a diner and ordering himself breakfast.

* * *

Dean woke up slowly, gradually. The curtains were tightly shut and the light filtered in dimly, filling the room with soft shadows. At first, while he stretched out, everything seemed okay. Then he remembered.

He rolled over, staring at the wall opposite. And he could feel, in that point between his shoulders, an ache, the first knot of tension that promised a headache by the end of the day, by the end of the morning, maybe.

He got up, pulling his clothes randomly from the floor, the end of the bed and the top of the dresser that stood next to the window, and got dressed. As he walked past Sam's room, he veered closer and gave the door a quick hammering.

"Come on, Sammy, get up."

He kept walking, down to the kitchen, filling the coffee pot, turning it on, picking up the empty beer bottles from the table in the living room and dropping them in the trash, setting out two clean cups on the counter.

Watching the coffee dripping into the glass jug for a while, Zenning out on the regular drip-drip, it was a few minutes before he realised he hadn't heard a sound from his brother's room. He let out a loud exhale in frustration and walked back up the stairs to Sam's door, leaning on it as he hammered on it again.

The only response he got was complete silence, and he felt a prickle raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He opened the door.

At first, it all looked the same. The bed was made, neatly, because that was Sam. There was nothing on the floor, ditto Sam. Then his attention sharpened and he realised that the books that filled the two shelves above the desk were gone. The jacket that hung over a knob on the dresser was gone. He walked into the room and pulled out the drawers of the dresser. Empty. All of them. He looked around, opening the wardrobe door. Empty. Where there should have been shoes, and shirts and jeans hanging up neatly, there was nothing.

He turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the room. Nothing of Sam's was here. Nothing. The bag, the big green canvas duffle that sat at the bottom of Sam's bed, empty but zipped closed, was gone.

_No_. He bit his lower lip, eyes still scanning the room as if he hoped to find it had all been a temporary hallucination and everything would be back in its place if he just looked long enough. _No. No. No._

He turned and left the room, striding fast back to the kitchen. Sam left another jacket on the coat rack by the front door. He looked for it. Gone.

_No. No. No. No_.

He wouldn't do this, he thought. Would he? Over the freaking graduation thing?

Coffee forgotten, he dragged on his boots and grabbed his keys and wallet from the hall table, slamming through the front door and the screen door fast. He was halfway down the concrete path to the street when he stopped, turning to look up and down the quiet dead-end road, understanding that he had no idea when Sam had gone, where he'd gone, why he'd gone or even how he'd gone.

His heart was racing. He could feel his pulse galloping inside his ears. Okay, stop and think about it – logically, he told himself. He'd packed everything, so obviously he hadn't been taken and he wasn't going to visit a friend. He'd meant to go, to leave. To leave them.

It didn't make him feel any better.

Would his friends know? Dean shook his head impatiently; he didn't know any of Sam's friends, so even if they did, how the hell was he supposed to find out? Hangouts, he thought. All school kids had hangouts, he just had to find one and he'd be able to get a bead on at least a couple of Sam's friends, and maybe they would know something. He turned and walked to the Impala, ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him the idea was _thin_, it was _anorexic_ … it was the only idea he had, so that detail didn't matter.

He got into the car and looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. It had been a while since he'd been at school, but he didn't remember getting to the local hangouts at that time of morning.

Didn't matter, he told himself, turning the key. He couldn't just sit in the house, waiting. He pulled out onto the street, and headed for the small downtown section of town.

It was ten forty-five when the first kids started to show up at the burger place, cars slowly filling the lot where the Impala had been conspicuously parked for the past three hours. He watched them trickle in. At least he'd picked the right place, he thought, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. He got out and walked in after them, looking around the scattering of tables for kids who might look like they knew of his brother.

He saw three kids who might fit that bill, sitting together at a table by the window. He hovered by the counter, wondering exactly what to say to them. Kids clammed up if they thought one of their own was in trouble. He didn't particularly want to play the concerned big brother role either. He decided to wing it and see how it went, walking over to the table.

"Hi. Do you guys know Sam Winchester?"

The auburn-haired girl and two boys sitting at the table looked at each other, then back at him. He smiled, his I'm-a-great-guy-you-can-trust-me smile, open and friendly. The girl nodded slowly.

"Yeah, a bit."

"Uh, have you seen him around today?" Dean looked at her.

She shook her head. "He said that he was leaving town soon, with his family, so he wouldn't be able to hang out."

"Uh, he actually said 'with his family'?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Yesterday, at graduation."

"Do you know, uh, the names of any friends he had that he was close to?" He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

The girl looked at the guy sitting next to her. "Well, we were about the only people he, like, hung out with. But you know, he wasn't here for very long, and he, um, didn't talk much about himself."

The guy nodded. "Who are you again?"

"I'm his brother," Dean told him absently, as he realised that Sam must have taken off on his own, and that led to a whole new can of worms.

"Great job with graduation yesterday then." The girl frowned at him. "He was majorly disappointed that you didn't show."

Dean looked down at her. "Yeah, well, I had to work."

"Sure. Yeah. Right," the other guy said.

Dean looked at him for a moment, just long enough that the guy started fidgeting with his cup. "Thanks."

They shrugged and turned away and he walked out, back across the parking lot to the car. So … no plans to just take off for a wild post-graduation weekend with his friends.

What did that leave him with? He knew the answer, but just couldn't believe it.

Sam had actually run away.

_God, Sammy_, he thought tiredly as he got into the car. _What are you, eight? This is what you come up when you're pissed at us?_

The thought of his father cascaded into a memory, a very recent memory. _Get back to Sedona, look after your brother. Stay with him, Dean. You make damned sure that the two of you stay together, that's your job._

He leaned his head against the wheel, feeling his unease amplify into genuine worry. Ever since New Mexico, Dad had been pounding into him about the need to look after Sam, to make sure that they didn't split up, that they kept close to each other. He'd figured it was just a side effect of Sam's injuries, but now that he thought about it, even before that hunt Dad had told him not to leave Sammy alone, to stick close to him.

Something had happened while they were in White Rock, _before_ Sam's near-fatal encounter with the spirits. Something that had scared his father so much that he'd been moving them around almost non-stop, until now. Something to do with the yellow-eyed demon that had ruled their lives by proxy since 1983. Had his father found out something? Was that why he'd been so on edge, so vehement yesterday?

So far as he knew, only one thing could scare his father. It was the same thing that scared him. He shivered in the warmth of the car. He had to find Sam. And he had to do it fast.

He pulled out the map of the area, looking over it carefully. There were only two big towns within easy reach of Sedona. Flagstaff, to the north, and Prescott, to the south. Flagstaff was much closer. Only thirty miles.

_Jesus, you fucking idiot_.

He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, leaving a trace of white smoke and the smell of burned rubber behind the black car. Sam could either walk or he could hitch up to Flagstaff. Both options would put him on the 89A – god, if he'd been thinking this morning, he probably could have found him along the damned road and had him back by now.

* * *

_**Flagstaff, Arizona.**_

Sam sat in the booth, eating slowly – his own pace, for once, not the rapacious speed of his brother – and reading through the local newspaper. He needed a job, and a place, something cheap, something convenient, something of his own. As he turned the pages, his eyes ran down the news and obits automatically, but nothing stood out to him, no weirdness or strange coincidence; no monsters in Flagstaff at this present time, he thought.

He made a note of three job possibilities and two cheap rentals, all within the same six block area, and set the paper aside. His phone was off, tucked into his bag and it would stay that way. He wasn't sure if this was a holiday, or if he wanted it to be permanent, not yet.

He paid for his breakfast and walked back out to the street, looking down at the addresses of the rentals. Probably needed a residence before he could apply for a job, he thought. The first one was a few blocks away, and he turned right, walking along the sidewalk into the rising sunshine, his heart light and a vague feeling of excitement buzzing along his nerves.

By eleven, he had a job and a place to live. Neither were worth writing home about, it was true, but it was the accomplishment that counted, he thought smugly as he stepped out of the manager's office, not the details. He walked out of the restaurant and onto the street, lifting his face happily to the bright sunlight.

The rental was a narrow studio over a garage, consisting of a long room with a kitchenette and bathroom at one end, and an alcove holding a bed and dresser at the other. It was fully furnished, in the very popular garage sale look, and was painted in a dirty yellow, which set off the moth-eaten mustard couch and low, seventies tiled table perfectly. The widow who had become his landlady was in her sixties, her brilliantly hennaed hair twisted into an improbable beehive, the matching blood-red false nails scraping against his palm as he'd handed over the first and last month's rent in cash. She was delicately scented with a mixture of crème de menthe, lavender toilet water and days' old sweat, but he'd hardly noticed, his attention fixed on the room, _his_room, his _place_ for as long as he wanted it.

The job had been even easier. The first one on the list had been a restaurant four blocks from the apartment. The Roca Roja was a medium sized, family run Mexican restaurant, and they were looking for a bus boy. The owner had looked at Sam for several minutes, given him an application form and hired him when he'd handed it back. He was starting on the dinner shift that night.

He walked back to the apartment slowly, looking around the neighbourhood that he was now a part of. Flyers pasted to the walls of the buildings along the way advertised local bands playing gigs in local bars, an art exhibition at the museum, summer courses at the college, missing pets and advance notices of the festivals and events to come in Prescott over the summer.

Absorbing them all, his thoughts flying so fast he could barely keep up, he realised that he felt like a prisoner who'd just been paroled. This was real life. Making plans. Making friends. Going to places, seeing things, experiencing events … things he'd never been able to do, had hardly been able to imagine. He looked back at a poster for the Prescott Bluegrass Festival in June, his face tightening as he memorised the dates. He was going to that. Alone if he hadn't found anyone to go with him, but he was going.

His chest was tight with the flood of emotion that filled him. All these years, all the rules, all the training and the discipline and no-home and no-friends … god, he was so sick of it, so sick of not being himself, not being allowed to be himself. Maybe what they'd done was important, maybe they'd kept a few people safer for a few more years … maybe they'd been marked, that night when he'd been an infant … he didn't know.

What he did know was that he'd had enough of it. He wanted out. He wanted this … this promise of being with people who weren't packing, weren't scared of the darkness, who went to see live bands at local bars, who thought a trip to a museum to see an art exhibition was a good way to spend an afternoon, who didn't smell of solvent and gun oil and strange herbs. Being with people who might think he was pretty cool with a straight A average and a liking for independent music and … his throat closed up and he swallowed hard, staring sightlessly at the wall as he tried to let the emotion and thoughts through without falling into a complete mess on the street.

He turned abruptly and strode forward, his sight blurry.

"Whoa, cowboy, watch where you're going!"

He stopped dead and looked down at the girl who stood in front of him, a good six inches shorter, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. She was staring up at him, nut-brown curly hair pulled into a loose ponytail, sea-gray eyes wide.

"Sorry."

"No problemo." She stepped aside and he saw the golden retriever beside her, warm brown eyes looking cheerfully up at him, pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

"Great dog," he said, crouching down beside it. "Yours?"

"Not for much longer. We're moving, and I've got to find him a home today," she said, crouching beside him and watching his hands moving confidently over the dog's head, rubbing behind the ears. "Hey, you want a dog?"

Sam stood up slowly. He did. He'd wanted a dog his whole freaking life. He looked down at the retriever who sat on the sidewalk next to him, lop-sided doggy smile beaming up at him. It was a crazy thing to do. Just get a dog like this. He lived in a tiny apartment.

His father's voice echoed in his ears.

"_No, Sammy, for the hundredth time you can't have a dog. It wouldn't be fair to the dog, or to any of us. We don't have a house, or a yard. Do you think a dog would like to be sitting in a car for hundreds of miles, for hours at a time just so that you can play catch with it once in a while? Come on, think about it."_

Well, he wasn't going to be sitting in a car for hundreds of miles anymore, was he?

"Yeah, I'd love him. What's his name?" He took the rope leash she handed to him, fingers curling around it, the feel of the coarse rope under them proving it wasn't a dream.

"Bones. For the usual reasons." She grinned at him. "Thanks. Takes a load off my mind; I didn't want to take him down to the shelter."

"Bones." Sam looked down at him, seeing the ears lift slightly. "Better get you some stuff, Bones."

The girl turned around and started walking back the way she'd come. Sam watched her go, bemused by this latest sign that his decision was the right one. A job, a place and a dog. In one day. How about that?

* * *

Dean drove along the road right on the speed limit, his gaze veering from side to side but with less and less conviction the closer he got to Flagstaff. He'd missed him, he thought unhappily as he came into the city limits.

He pulled over into a gas station and parked away from the pumps, turning off the engine and thinking. If he'd made it this far, what would he do? For a long moment, nothing came to mind. _C'mon, he's your brother, you know him better than anyone else, what the fuck would he do?_

He leaned back in the seat, the answer to the question slowly becoming apparent. It depended on what his little brother wanted from this escapade. Time off, time on his own, or to get away from them, for good.

He flinched at the last thought, despite the fact that it had been lurking around in the back of his mind for the last four hours. Sammy had been fighting against the way they lived for the last couple of years. That fight hadn't gone, it hadn't been weakened, if anything it had gotten stronger, the battles of will with their father becoming more personal, more specific.

His little brother had a natural gift for provocation, and Dad was already more touchy than a wounded bear, it didn't take much to set him off. Dean had seen the triumphant glint in his brother's eyes whenever he managed to score what he considered a hit against Dad. The fact that he was hurting him, hurting his brother, hurting their family, never seemed to cross Sam's mind.

There was a bus terminal in Flagstaff. He started the engine again and pulled out. He'd better start there. If his brother had taken a bus out of Flagstaff, he was going to have to call Dad. That thought left the bitter taste of failure in his mouth.

When he came out of the terminal fifteen minutes later, he felt a little better. The woman behind the counter had been on since five that morning and she hadn't recognised the picture of Sam. There was a good chance he was still in Flagstaff.

Of course, he thought tiredly as he crossed the lot to the car, it was a town of some sixty thousand people, and finding him was going to be a bitch. He got in the Impala, taking some comfort from the smell and feel of his car. Motels, hotels, rooms for rent, he thought, putting her into reverse and backing out. He'd start with those.

It hadn't occurred to him before he started, but Flagstaff's proximity to the Grand Canyon meant that the town had a lot of accommodation. A whole lot.

He came out of hotel number thirty, and leaned against the car. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and he hadn't even checked through half of the places yet. He didn't know how much money Sam had, although he knew that his brother had been saving for a while. Sooner or later it would run out. He was almost tempted to go back to Sedona and let that happen, but the memory of his father's face, that look that had been in his eyes, kept him searching. If anything happened to Sam … he shook his head. Nothing would. He would make sure of it. Looking after Sam was what he did, even when his asshole brother didn't want to be looked after.

By six, he was starving and bone-tired. He pulled into a parking space along the street, and looked at the two restaurants nearby. The Brewer's Barrel looked promising, but for another time, he thought. Any alcohol, even a beer, would put him straight to sleep after today. He turned and walked into the Roca Roja, hoping that they served strong freaking chilli because he needed something to keep him going.

The chilli was good and he finished the meal quickly, barely noticing the staff who served him and took his empty plates away. He'd try and cover another few places until nine and then get a room and crash. He could start again in the morning. He glanced at his watch as he paid the check. Quarter to seven. He walked onto the street and got into the car, turning north.

* * *

Sam glanced at his watch as he hurried along the street, turning into the alley that led to the back door of the restaurant. Six forty-five. His shift started at seven, and he wanted to be ready.

Bones had settled down in the apartment contentedly, and Sam had unpacked his bag and cleaned up a little. He was already thinking of it as 'home' – going 'home' after his shift, going 'home' to take Bones for a walk, buying groceries to take 'home' – it was a faintly weird thought process, but one he was enjoying at the same time.

Inside the bathroom for the staff, he changed quickly into the uniform black pants, starched white shirt and apron that Jose had shown him, putting his street clothes into the locker assigned. He came into the main room and looked around for Elise, the waitress who was supposed to be training him tonight. A tall, thin young woman with a wild fall of thick black hair stood between the bathrooms and the staff room, drawing her hair back into a knot at the base of her neck. She looked up as she felt his gaze on her.

"You the new guy?"

He nodded. "You Elise?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Well, let's get into it, time's money for us working stiffs."

She walked down to the kitchen, and Sam followed, listening as she explained the way the restaurant and the tightly-knit group of staff worked.

"Now, don't know what Jose told you about tips but the first three days, while I'm training you, there won't be any, got it? That's my training wage. After that, and depending on how fast you are, how thorough and how well you do your job, you'll get ten percent or more from the tips that come into our area."

Sam nodded, stopping as she came to an abrupt halt in front of him. "So clear the tables, wipe them down – spotlessly, I might add – bring the dishes back here and hand them over to Frank," She pointed to the dishwasher in the corner, who raised his hand in greeting, his tight red curls hidden and constrained by a paper cap. Sam looked over, nodding and looked back to her. "Reset the tables and in between, if we have a lull, you come back in here and stack away the dishes that Frank's washed, help out with trash, whatever anyone needs, right?"

"Sure." Sam looked carefully around the kitchen, making mental notes of where everything was kept. He thought he could handle it.

"Good, 'cos our shift just started. You punched in, right?"

"Yeah."

The night passed very quickly. He watched Elise moving around the tables, smiling and deferential, getting every order down accurately, carrying three or four plates out and handing them out without a single error and he followed her around, clearing off dirty plates, wiping down, helping Frank out with the stacking or washing, taking the trash out … he didn't have time to stop or to think, and he found that suited him pretty well.

The restaurant quietened down from eleven and although they kept serving until midnight, there were far fewer customers and the pace eased off. At one, Jose closed the doors and everyone moved around, cleaning up, putting everything away, ready for the next day. Jose handed out the tips and closed out the register, nodding to Sam approvingly as Sam walked back to the staff room. He changed out of the work clothes, hanging everything up, and walked out the back door with Elise at one-thirty.

"Pretty good, kid." She smiled at him and pulled a twenty from the roll in her hand. "Bonus. You earned it."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Thought that was your training wage?"

She shrugged. "I don't like people who goof off on the job, but I'm happy to reward hard work when I see it. Like I said, you earned it." She turned away, heels clicking on the asphalt as she walked down the alley. "See you tomorrow!"

"Yeah, see you tomorrow." He tucked the twenty into his pocket and turned the other way, heading for _home_.

* * *

_**June 3, 2000. Arizona.**_

Dean sat on the motel bed, his head in his hands. The headache he'd woken with was getting worse, pounding at the inside of his skull like a jackhammer, his stomach was churning and he'd run out of options. He'd been to every motel and hotel in the city. He'd been to the construction sites, the library, the museum, the college, every restaurant and bar, he'd lurked around the bookstores and he'd even made a pass through the strip joints and brothels, a move that said everything about his level of desperation. He'd checked the bus terminal twice more and driven out to the airport as well. His brother had just fucking disappeared.

He was beginning to think he'd gotten it wrong. That Sam had headed south to Prescott instead. He shook his head. He could've gone to Phoenix. He could've gotten a cheap flight to anywhere. He pressed his fingertips against his temples and tried to shove down the fear that was now a permanent fixture in his head.

Getting up unsteadily, he walked to the little kitchenette and filled a glass from the tap. A bottle of Tylenol sat on the counter, and he shook two out, tossing them into his mouth and washing them down. He put the bottle into his jacket, and picked up his keys and wallet. He'd have to check out Prescott. He couldn't think of anywhere else to look here.

SR 89A ran down from Flagstaff to Prescott, going through Sedona and Cottonwood and Clarkdale. Dean stopped at the house in Sedona, had a shower and checked that the house was still secure, then continued along the highway. He checked Cottonwood desultorily, but didn't really think Sam would have stopped there. Clarkdale he passed through without stopping. When he got to Prescott, he pulled into a gas station and filled the tank, grabbing a coffee and a local map, accommodation listings printed on the back. It would be a help.

He drove from motel to hotel through the rest of the day, asking questions, showing the photograph of his brother, concocting stories to suit the people he was interviewing. No one had seen Sam. None of the motels or hotels had any of their aliases listed as checked in.

He parked on the street, outside a small, local bar. Sitting in the car, listening to a tape playing quietly, he pulled the bottle of Tylenol from his pocket. The rattle was much softer and he lifted it, staring at the two pills that were left. After a moment he opened it and shook them out, dry-swallowing them.

The bar was quiet and almost empty and he took a seat at the long timber counter and asked for a whiskey.

* * *

_**June 9, 2000. Flagstaff, Arizona.**_

Sam opened the door and crouched down to pat and get a tongue bath from Bones. The dog was insanely easy to please, wagging his whole rear end on any occasion or even on no occasion. From the refrigerator he took a can of soda, and grabbed a bag of Funyuns from the basket he kept filled on the counter. He turned on the TV, wanting to zone out for a while, let the day settle down in his head before he went to bed.

He had a routine going now, a steady, predictable routine that was as novel as it was soothing. He woke around eight, and he and Bones would go for a long walk around the neighbourhood, up to the park and back down to the apartment. He made himself breakfast and spent a couple of hours writing out applications for colleges, taking his notes up to the library in the early afternoons to use the computers and printers there. Another walk with Bones and a snack, then it was time for his shift at the restaurant, and after that he'd spend an hour or so watching late night TV or listening to the radio or reading before he felt weary enough to go to sleep. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't dangerous. It was just his day.

He flopped onto the couch, popping open the soda and taking a swallow. The scent of onions wafted from the bag when he opened it, and he sat contentedly, Bones curled up beside him on the cheap quilt, munching on his junk food, watching the end of a very old Clint Eastwood spaghetti western.

At two, he started yawning. He pushed Bones off the couch and turned off the TV, going into the small bathroom to clean his teeth. Settling himself in the centre of the double bed, he pulled the quilt up and rolled onto his side, his eyes closing, grinning to himself as he felt the lurch of the mattress as Bones jumped up.

_He was sitting in a dark room, a room he felt he should have recognised, but didn't. The single light source was from the hallway outside the room. It cast a long yellow triangle onto the floor through the open doorway. He felt uneasy about the room, the open doorway, that yellow triangle coming into the room. He wanted to get out of the chair but he couldn't move._

_He heard footsteps coming down the hall and now he really wanted to move. His body remained still. He heard his breathing quicken, the air puffing out in little gasps, just the way Dr Perez had told him not to breathe. He couldn't control that either._

_A man appeared in the doorway, a silhouette, jet black against the light behind him._

"_Ah, Sammy, can't get free just yet." The man's voice was rich with nuance, through the southern accent. "Soon, kiddo, you'll have your shot soon. But not just yet. Your old man still has a few things to teach you."_

_Sam tried to speak. Nothing came out._

"_No, no, this isn't what you'd call a dialogue, Sammy. This is … well, let's call it a push. Gently at first, but I'll get stronger if you don't pay attention."_

_He disappeared. The light in the hall went out._

And Sam sat up in the bed, his breathing too shallow and rapid, the memory of the dream fading as he lifted his hands to rub his eyes.

* * *

_**Sedona, Arizona**_

Dean looked up at the sound of the key in the front door, springing to his feet and almost running to the hall. He stopped as his father walked in, dropping his bags on the floor, turning to pull the keys from the lock, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey." John glanced at his son as he turned around, his gaze moving past Dean then snapping back to the young man as he belatedly registered Dean's appearance.

"What's wrong?" There were deep shadows under his son's eyes, freckles standing out against too pale skin.

Dean looked at him, then took a deep breath. "I lost Sam."

"What do you mean, you lost him?" John's brows drew down. "Lost him where? How?"

"After graduation, he took off the next d-day." Dean unconsciously straightened, stiffening himself as he watched his father absorbing the information. "I've looked everywhere for him, Flagstaff, Prescott, all over town, all through every town around here. I – I can't find him."

John closed his eyes, struggling to deal with the fear that boiled like acid through him, cutting off his air and soaking him instantly in a cold sweat.

"Took off? You mean he ran away? On his own?"

"Yeah. He packed everything."

John's eyes snapped open and he looked at Dean. "Wait a minute, after graduation – this happened ten fucking days ago?"

Dean bowed his head. "I went looking for him, I didn't want to –"

"Jesus Christ, Dean!" The fear broke through and anger was the only thing John had left to fight it with. The words roared out of his throat, and hit his son like a sledgehammer, Dean twitching as he forced himself not to flinch away. "What the fucking hell is wrong with you? Ten goddamned days you wait …"

He closed the distance between them, grabbing the edges of Dean's jacket and slamming him back against the wall, his face inches from his son's.

"You don't wait to tell me! You fucking tell me straight away!"

Dean kept his eyes open, staring wide and terrified into his father's. He wanted to shut them. He wanted to hide. He hadn't felt that way since he was little but he felt it now.

"If your brother dies, Dean – if he dies, then it's on you." John let him go and turned abruptly away. The anger coursing through him was a flood and it wanted much more of a release than just words. He was shaking with the effort to control it, and he didn't want his son to see that either.

Behind him, Dean stood still, unmoving.

"Ten days … jesus, no." John walked away, fists clenched, trying to think, trying to get on top of the fear, to rein in the anger, trying to find some fucking level that he could just stop and think.

Sam alone. Dean alone for the last ten days. His stomach heaved as he remembered Azazel's last threat. He hadn't known what it was, but he'd looked it up. And wished he hadn't. He couldn't take Dean with him; he had too little control, too much fear, too much anger. He couldn't leave him alone either. The goddamned demon would find him and kill him. He turned suddenly, looking at his son.

"Get packed, everything, right now."

"No, I can help – "

"FOLLOW THE GODDAMNED ORDER, DEAN!"

John walked to the kitchen without waiting to see if Dean was going. Watching the rigidity of his father's stride, Dean turned and headed for his bedroom. His stomach was lurching, the headache had gone beyond pounding into a new realm of glass shards and ice picks and the words, his father's words, were ricocheting around in his head.

He veered into the bathroom and threw up the little bile that he had, turning to the sink and rinsing the taste out of his mouth, the cold water giving him a little relief from the pain in his head. He hurried out and into his bedroom, grabbing the bag and shoving everything into it, as fast as he could, trying to keep his mind blank, trying not to think, trying – desperately trying – not to feel anything.

John was waiting in the hall. "Go to Jim's. Right now. Don't stop, don't take any risks, just go to Jim's and stay there."

Dean nodded, his gaze on the floor. He walked past his father to the door, turning as he opened it. John stood in the hallway, eyes closed and head bowed. Dean closed the door behind him and walked to the Impala, struggling to breathe against the increasing tension in his chest, his throat.

He got into the car. Started the engine. Pulled away from the kerb. Drove.

* * *

John walked slowly into the living room and sat on the couch. What the hell had they been thinking? Sam, to go off like that. Dean to wait so goddamned long before telling him.

They didn't know what was after them, he told himself bleakly. They didn't know because you didn't tell them. All the good and sound and logical reasons for not telling them seemed ludicrous now.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Still shaking. He was drowning in fear, in the images that his subconscious regurgitated every night. The dreamcatcher stopped the demon from entering his dreams. But nothing could stop his imagination from throwing his deepest fears at him.

He leaned against the back of the couch, sucking in lungfuls of air, thinking of how to find his youngest son.

* * *

_**Route 191 Utah**_

Dean drove like a machine, his eyes open and unblinking, fingers tight around the wheel, foot steady on the accelerator, the speed of the black car never varying as it rumbled along the highway. He was crossing into Utah when the sun set, lighting the barren rock, sands and mesas that filled the desert along the road to improbable hues and tints and shades of red and gold. He missed all of the spectacular light show, his focus narrowed to the black road, delineated by the white lines that ran to either side of him. Inside the car, the volume of the stereo was all the way up, and the music thumped and pounded against his eardrums, drowning out his thoughts, shutting them down, stopping the undertow from dragging him deep.

He was distantly aware that he was getting tired, that the headache hadn't gone away, had just been out-shouted by Metallica and AC/DC, Zeppelin and the Stones. He glanced down at the mileage counter, nodding to himself. He could do another couple of hours. At Crescent Junction he'd be peeling off right, onto the interstate. He would be alright until then.

He let the music soak into him again, the bass regulating his pulse, the riffs and rhythms filling his mind. He couldn't hear his father in here now. Couldn't hear the lash of anger. So long as his eyes were open, his concentration on the road unwinding endlessly ahead of him, he couldn't see his father's face. He was safe.

* * *

_**June 10, 2000. Flagstaff, Arizona**_

Sam sank into sleep quickly, the day had gone fast and he was tired.

"_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Didn't I tell you it was time to go home?" The voice came out of the darkness in his closet. Sam scrunched deeper under his covers and breathed through his mouth, trying to be silent and invisible, trying to convince the monster that he wasn't there._

"_You know what you've done to your brother, don't you?"_

_He shivered. Dean was okay, he told himself firmly. Nothing had happened to his big brother. Nothing _could_ happen to his big brother. Dean, like Dad, was invincible and indestructable._

"_Not even close, kiddo. Check it out."_

_The TV set in the corner of the room came on suddenly, white snow filling the screen. Sam peeked over the edge of the covers, watching the picture resolve into a forest, by the side of a road. The Impala was parked next to the forest, and in the middle of the trees was his brother, kneeling on the ground, his head thrown back and eyes screwed shut and his mouth wide open. _

_Dean was … screaming. There was no sound from the TV, but his brother was clearly screaming. He shut his eyes against the sight. They popped open again. He could see the veins standing out along Dean's neck, bright red blood coming from his mouth, the scream so intense that it was rupturing the blood vessels inside of him._

"_Go home, Sam. Go find your Daddy. Your time will come, have no doubt, but it's not now."_

Sam woke up sweating, his hair wet and dripping into his eyes. He remembered … he remembered his brother screaming.

He pulled the covers off and swung his legs off the couch, hunching over as he tried to retrieve more than that fragment from the dream. His pulse was racing, he knew there was more, but he couldn't grasp it, couldn't hold onto it.

He got up and went to the kitchenette, turning on the coffee maker. _Dean_. He hadn't really thought of what his brother would do or think or feel when he'd disappeared. He and Dad, the two of them lived for hunting, for the life, and they seemed so dissimilar to him that he couldn't imagine their reactions to his going off (_running away_) and doing his own thing for a while.

But in the back of his mind, he knew differently. He knew that Dean would be … (_panicking, devastated, terrified_) … worried by his disappearance. The pot filled and he poured himself a cup, taking it back to the couch.

Dad would have returned from Phoenix by now. Dean would have told him (_Sammy ran away on my watch_) and the two of them were probably searching for him right now, Dad angry (_with Dean_) for the time wasted in the search.

Sam put the cup down and looked around the small apartment. This was what he wanted. This life. No monsters or guns, no salt or ghosts. Just regular life. But he (_should have told Dean, should have told Dad_) probably should have let them know instead of disappearing. He dragged in a deep breath.

Yeah, it had been kind of childish to just (_disappear, vanish, hide_) take off.

He chewed on his bottom lip. He'd call his brother tomorrow. The memory of Dean, kneeling on the forest floor, his head thrown back, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as the scream ripped out his throat, flashed back into his mind. He shook it off. Just a dream (_nightmare_), he thought. It wasn't like it could be real.

* * *

_**Sedona, Arizona**_

John opened his eyes, looking around for the ringing sound. His phone lay on the table next to the couch, and he finally focussed on it, picking it up.

"Yeah."

"Dad? It's Sam." Sam waited.

"Where are you?"

Sam hesitated as the question, and the tone of his father's voice, didn't match up to his expectations. "In Flagstaff."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam looked at the phone. "I tried to call Dean, but his phone's off."

"Yeah. I know." John rubbed his forehead. Dean would be in Blue Earth this afternoon, early evening maybe. He'd already called Jim to let him know.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked. He was having a problem getting his head around this conversation. This was nothing like what he'd thought his father would say – or sound – like.

"He's alright." He closed his eyes at the outright lie. Dean was not all right. But he was alive. "Give me the address, Sam, I'll be there in an hour."

Sam gave it to him and hung up, turning to look sorrowfully at Bones, panting happily beside him. "Sorry buddy, I gotta go."

He slipped the rope collar around the dog's neck and opened the door, leading him outside. They walked down to the park. He'd thought of trying to get John to accept the dog, a fait accompli, but his father wouldn't. So he had two choices, he could try and find someone on this walk, or he could take Bones down to the shelter. He was trying to find someone.

* * *

John packed up the house and dropped the key back to the landlord on his way out of town. He drove steadily along the highway, the stereo providing a barrier to his thoughts. Not much of one.

There was no point getting on Sam's case about his disappearing trick. Sam had done what Sam always did, act first, think later. Possibly he hadn't considered his brother's reaction, although John was fairly sure that Sam had thought about _his_ reaction. It didn't matter. He'd alienated one son, he didn't want to add to the count.

He pulled up in front of the house exactly one hour later, watching as Sam came down the stairs, his duffle bulging. Sam threw the bag into the back and got into the truck, looking at his father. John nodded at him, and pulled out, heading north.

* * *

_**June 12, 2000. Blue Earth, Minnesota**_

Jim watched Dean cleaning the gun. Every movement was deliberate, methodical, as if he was focussing his concentration on the task so completely that no thought could intrude. He sighed. He had a feeling that's exactly what Dean was doing.

John had called an hour earlier. They were in Nebraska, would be there in a few hours.

Dean had spoken very little since he'd arrived yesterday. He gave Jim the bare outlines of what had happened. Looking at him, Jim could guess what John's reactions had been to Sam's disappearance – he knew what John feared, knew that the fear was making him irrational and unable to control his emotions, his reactions. The fear would have turned to rage, and the rage had spilled all over his eldest son.

He'd disagreed with John about not telling the boys of the demon's threats. Perhaps now, John would change his mind.

Getting up from the chair and walking to the porch steps, he sat down a couple of feet from the young man.

"Your Dad's a good man, Dean," he said softly. He saw Dean stiffen, his lips compress tightly. After a moment the young man nodded.

"Even the best men can't withstand torture if it goes on too long." He paused for a long moment. "And hunting the demon that killed your mother, that's been torture for a long time now."

Dean muttered something softly under his breath and Jim leaned closer.

"What?"

"He won't let me help him." He cleared his throat. "He doesn't want my help."

Looking at his profile, he watched Dean's jaw muscle bulge as he set his jaw, suppressing whatever emotions that admission had brought.

"He's afraid, Dean," Jim said slowly, turning to look across the garden to the church beyond. It was, he thought, something John couldn't admit easily to the boys, but it was something they needed to know, to be able to understand. "He's terrified that if he puts you into the firing line, where he is, he'll lose you, or Sam or both of you."

Dean stopped working on the gun. Jim saw the glint of a tear caught in his eyelashes. He stood up slowly, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing it.

"Never seen a man who loves his family so much as your father loves you boys, Dean," he said quietly, looking down at the bowed head below him. "He'd die for you and Sam, he would've died for your mother if he'd been a given a choice in the matter."

He looked down. The young man was as still as stone under his hand, his body rigid with inner tension.

"Dying is easy though, compared to living with what happened. What's still happening." He felt his hand lift slightly as Dean took a deep breath. "He keeps thinking he's gotten used to the fear, then something happens and his control goes again."

Dean caught that, looking up sharply. "What happened?"

Jim smiled, and patted the shoulder he'd been holding. "He has to tell you that, son, I can't."

"He won't."

"Maybe he will. Now." Jim looked down at him again. "If that gun's clean, come inside. I'll beat your ass at some poker, what do you say?"

Dean looked down at the gun, some of the tension bleeding out of him as he thought about what Jim had said. He wanted to believe that it wasn't him, wasn't his failures that made his father look at him like that. He wanted to believe that.

He closed his eyes for a moment then looked up at Jim. "I say you better have cash to back your stake, old man, 'cos I could use a new tape deck for the car."

Jim grinned at him, relieved that at least some of what he'd said had been enough to break through. He'd known the young man in front of him since he'd been a small child, had seen him grow up. Most of what Dean felt was on the surface, clearly visible. Some things were not. All of it added up to a complicated man, driven by his family, bearing burdens that had changed and distorted him

There was no way of raising the contradictions he could see in Dean now. He had effective armour against personal conversations that defied an easy fix. He was smart, Jim knew, and curiously pure-hearted for a man who crossed society's lines of acceptable behaviour without much thought.

The priest's grin widened as he looked at the challenging expression in Dean's eyes.

"Bring it on."

* * *

Sam got out of the truck and stretched. They'd done the last nine hours straight through and he felt like a pretzel.

John sat in the truck, staring at the wheel. He was afraid, he realised. Afraid to get out of the truck, go inside and face his son. What he'd said to him … he didn't know how to make that right again.

Sam glanced at his father through the windshield, his brow wrinkling as he saw the fixed stare. He stood indecisively beside the front of the truck, and heard the screen door banging open.

Dean walked onto the porch and down the steps to his brother. Sam had grown again and they stood eye-to-eye now. The punch came out of nowhere, landing on Sam's jaw and knocking him to the ground. He lay there, looking up at Dean, then nodded resignedly.

"Guess I deserved that." He rolled onto his knees and stood up, cautiously taking a step back from his older brother, just in case the one hadn't been enough.

"Yeah." Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Jim's inside, looking to make some money off us at poker."

Sam grinned. "How much is he into you for?"

Dean snorted and turned away. It would take some time before he could laugh properly again with his brother. He'd come to understand on the long, lonely drive to Minnesota that Sam had acted without thinking, without thinking about him. That had hurt a lot more than he'd thought it would.

He watched his little brother climb the steps to the house, then turned to look into the truck. He could see his father inside it, forehead resting against the wheel, unmoving. John looked up, too quickly for Dean to turn away, their eyes meeting.

John got out of the truck and walked to his son. Dean's gaze had dropped to the ground, his shoulders hunching slightly.

"You want to take a swing at me too?" his father asked, lifted his chin.

Dean's gaze snapped upward, his eyes widening with shock at the suggestion.

John looked at him seriously. "I deserve it."

"No. You were right. I –"

John stepped forward fast, enfolding Dean in his arms, holding him tightly, cutting him off. "Don't say that, I wasn't right, I was – I was scared and it came out as anger and I took that out on you, instead of controlling it, dealing with it – I wasn't right, Dean, I was so goddamned wrong." He dragged in a deep breath, forcing it past the obstruction in his throat. "I'm sorry. "

Within the unexpected embrace, Dean stood perfectly still, hearing the ragged breathing of his father beside his ear, paralysed by his father's words and the rarity of physical contact in equal measures.

"You okay, Dad?" he whispered uncertainly when the silence between them stretched on and his father didn't move.

John's chest hitched, his arms tightening around his son. "No, not really, dude."

He let go and stepped back, looking into the young man's face. "You're one tough kid, you know that?"

Dean ducked his head, his gaze sweeping the ground. He had no idea what to say, what to think. Inside, where he lived, where it was just him, he didn't think that. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and looked up.

"Don't ever think I don't want your help, Dean, no matter what I say. But there are times when the choice between keeping you and Sammy safe, and having you with me, is just too heavily weighted in the enemy's favour. Do you understand?"

Dean shook his head. "We're in this together, Dad. You can't protect us by getting yourself killed."

John smiled. "Maybe not. But I'm your father, and if I didn't try to protect you, if I didn't try to keep you out of harm's way, I would be a failure at the most important job I have."

* * *

_Love is never simple. Not for fathers and sons. We spend our lives full of hope and expectations. And most of the time we are bound to fail. But that afternoon as I watched my father sheltering his son against a future that was so unsure, all I knew was they didn't want to let each other down anymore._

_~ Narrator, The Wonder Years_


	22. Chapter 22 Ride the Lightning

**Chapter 22 Ride the Lightning**

* * *

_**August 2000. Jackson's Gap, Alabama.**_

"Question." Sam ran a hand through his hair, looking across the room at his brother. "How do you electrocute someone with no electricity?"

Dean looked up from the files he was reading. "Yeah, I got nothing."

"Four of them in the last four months." Sam shook his head. "You'd think the local kids would hang out somewhere else."

They looked up at the door as it opened, and John walked in, dumping grocery sacks on the kitchenette counter.

"What have you got?" He looked from Sam to Dean as he shut the door.

"Uh, four young men, ages ranging from eighteen to twenty-five. All died of electrocution according to the coroner's reports. Burn marks on the bodies were consistent with deliberate electrocution. Bodies all found in Block B of the now-abandoned Jackson Prison facility, a facility that hasn't been used for forty-five years." Sam looked up at his father.

"There was nothing around the bodies to indicate any possibility of electrocution. They were found in an empty room, with no wiring present. No electricity has been run to the buildings since it was closed in 1955," he added, turning to look at his brother.

Dean cleared his throat. "The prison has been used as a place to hang out by local teenagers since it was shut down. There aren't any records of anyone dying there, or even being injured there, until this year. The deaths started in April." He flicked over a page. "The coroner did speculate that the last time he'd seen burn marks like the ones on the bodies, they were on the body of a prisoner executed on Ol' Sparky." He shut the file. "His words, not mine."

"Vengeful spirit?" John sat down at the table, tossing a cold beer to each of his sons and opening his own.

"It looks that way, but where's it getting the electricity from?" Sam sipped the beer. "There isn't even a pole within two hundred yards of the building."

"We'll figure that out later. Who are the candidates?"

Dean put down his beer, picking up the second file beside him. "Four possibilities. Edgar Morrison. Incarcerated in Jackson in 1931 for the murder of two families. Executed in 1935. Uh, William Blaine, executed 1946 for the rape and murder of three young women. Frederick Dalton, executed in 1950 for the murder of two men. And Nathan Salinger, executed in 1951 for the murders of nine young men over a ten-year period." He looked at his father. "Salinger seems to be closest to the current MO."

John nodded. "We got burial records for them?"

Sam shifted a stack of notes. "Morrison and Blaine were both cremated. Dalton was buried in Georgia, family petitioned for the body to be returned to his home state. Salinger was buried locally, an unmarked grave in the town cemetery."

"Good work, both of you." John stood up and walked to the counter, pulling out canisters of salt from the bags.

"Uh, Dad …," Sam wet his lips. "There are two other things that are connected to each of the deaths."

John looked over at him, an eyebrow raised.

"There was a thunderstorm over the county, all four times." Sam looked at Dean, who nodded in confirmation.

"And they had two goes at killing Salinger. The first time something went wrong and he didn't die, he was burned pretty badly though," Dean said. "We thought, well, it's possible that some his skin ended up on the chair."

John nodded. "Is the chair still in the county?"

Dean and Sam looked at each other. Dean shrugged. "There's no record of it at all. Could have been moved, or it could be in storage somewhere. The prison records don't mention it."

John sighed. "Perfect."

He pulled out three bottles of butane from the bags and set them next to the salt. "Well, we'll start with grave. And then we'll look through the prison buildings."

His sons nodded, getting up and lifting the canvas bags onto the end of the bed, sorting through the gear in them and putting in the salt and butane their father had bought.

* * *

Dean tossed his bag onto the passenger seat of the Impala as Sam came around the back of the car. He shut the door and looked at his brother expressionlessly.

"You mind riding with Dad?"

Sam's gaze cut from his brother to the bag taking up the seat. "Yeah, sure." He turned around and walked past the black car to the truck, ignoring his father's curious look as he climbed in.

John looked at his eldest son, Dean meeting his eyes briefly then shaking his head. He turned away, walking around the Impala. John watched him get into the car and start the engine.

When he got into the truck, John saw that Sam was hunched up against the door.

"Dean still mad at you?" he asked quietly. Sam shrugged.

"I guess so."

"He'll get over it." John started the truck and twisted around to back down the drive. "He just needs some time."

"Yeah." Sam looked through the windshield, looking at his brother's face, lit up by the truck's headlights as he reversed down after them. He hadn't meant to hurt his brother, not even Dad, when he'd left. He'd been trying to figure out what he wanted. But if he hadn't known before, he knew now that his actions two months ago had hurt Dean deeply, changed something fundamental between them, to the point that they'd hardly spoken of anything that wasn't related to hunting or day-to-day chores since they'd left Blue Earth.

He didn't know how to fix it, to go back to where they'd been before. Dean had muttered something about not knowing him anymore. But he hadn't changed, he was still the same as he'd been, and if he were honest, he'd probably do it the same way again.

* * *

Dean watched the taillights of the truck ahead of him, keeping exactly three lengths behind his father, his thoughts churning along the same lines as his brother's.

Sam hadn't thought of anyone else when he'd left. That was what bothered him. He hadn't thought of his brother, who had responsibility for him, who was worried out of his freaking mind about him, or the consequences for said brother when Dad had returned and found out that Sam was missing. That was the least of it, nothing his father had said to him had been worse than what he'd said to himself, and Dad's fury had at least been outside of his head, where he could deal with it better.

He knew that Sam longed to be out of this life. That maybe his little brother even needed to be out of it. He just hadn't realised that the need also meant being away from him. To get away from Dad, from hunting, meant getting away from him too and that his brother had wanted that. Being together, the three of them, a family, that wasn't what Sam wanted.

And it was that knowledge that was breaking his heart.

* * *

_**Jackson's Gap Cemetery, Alabama**_

"How the hell are we going to find the right grave here?" Dean looked around at the plain, unmarked graves that surrounded him.

"Use your EMF, that's what you built it for, isn't it?" John tossed a shovel to Sam, and slung his bag over his shoulder.

Dean dug around in his jacket pocket, pulling out the converted Walkman case that now held an electronic sensor that measured electro-magnetic fields, with a simple analog gauge to record the readings and a small Radio Shack alarm modified to give an aural warning. The low warbling didn't vary as he moved through the graves, up one line and down the other, until he got to the far edge of the cemetery. Two spiking squawks made him look over to his father and brother with raised eyebrows.

"I believe we have a winner."

He walked along the line of graves and the EMF got louder, emitting a loud yee-AWP as he passed the last grave. He switched it off and started to dig. In a minute, Sam's shovel was digging alongside his, and they had cleared the turf and stones from the top, working deeper into the topsoil.

John leaned on his shovel, watching them, watching the graveyard around them. According to the copies of the old police reports and trial transcripts, Salinger had been an evil man and a ruthless killer. The young men he'd abducted from all over the state, he'd brought back to this county, to the house he'd inherited from his parents. They'd been tortured before being killed, some of them held for weeks in the root cellar on the property.

As he watched the quiet night now, he had a feeling that the boys had been right about the remains. The spirit should have shown up here if this was the only thing holding him. Should have fought them, tried to prevent them from burning and releasing it.

There was a solid clunk as Dean's shovel hit wood, and Sam scrambled out of the grave, tossing his shovel to one side and taking the flashlight, shining it down where Dean cleared off the loose soil remaining on the top of the plain pine box. The wood was desiccated and crumbling, the dryness of the ground the only thing that had kept it from rotting entirely.

When what remained of the lid was lifted, the bones lay inside, no trace of flesh or cloth hiding them. Sam passed the bag of salt down to Dean and watched as his brother spread it thickly over the skeleton. He and John extended their hands and pulled Dean out of the hole easily between them. John splashed butane over the remains and Dean lit the match and tossed it in. The lighter fluid caught immediately and the firelight played over their faces as they watched the bones burning.

"I think you were right," John said heavily, looking around the cemetery. "Salinger left some of himself on that chair. He's still going to be around."

They packed the gear away, and carried it back to the car and truck. John looked thoughtfully at his sons, seeing the distance between them. It had been a shock to Dean to find out that his brother didn't feel the same way about family as he did.

"Sam, you ride with Dean back to town. There's something I need to check out."

Dean dropped his gaze as his father turned away. He knew what this was about. Dad was sick of the disunity between his sons and had decided to start forcing the issue. It wasn't going to work, he thought sourly, slamming the trunk lid down. Nothing could undo what had been done.

Sam watched his brother slam the trunk as he put the bags into the back seat. He slid into the passenger seat and waited, chewing the corner of his lip as he tried to think of anything to say.

Dean slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. He turned to his brother and saw him open his mouth.

"Don't," he said, forestalling his brother's comment and looking back through the windshield. "I know you didn't mean it, Sammy. I just don't want to talk about it."

Sam looked at him. "Dean …"

"No." He turned in the seat, reversing and turning, following his father's truck out of the cemetery. "Seriously, dude, no."

"We gotta get past this."

Dean's mouth compressed as he followed the truck back to the road. He watched the truck turn left, hesitating for a moment at the junction, then turned right, back into town.

"I understand you're pissed at me –" Sam tried again.

"Yeah, I'm pissed at you." Dean flicked a sidelong look at him. "There's nothing I can do about it, I'll be pissed until I'm not anymore, alright?"

Sam exhaled and turned away from him. "Yeah. Whatever."

The muscle in the point of Dean's jaw jumped, but he let it go, concentrating his attention on the road, the car. He glanced at the stereo, and shoved the tape in, _Fade to Black_ pouring out through the speakers. His finger hovered over the stop button for a long moment, then he left it on.

* * *

John drove down to the old prison. The buildings had been stripped, the fences dismantled years before. It seemed, in the cold moonlight, just a collection of abandoned buildings, nothing more, nothing less.

He parked the truck out of sight of the road, and locked it, taking his lockpicks and a salt-loaded shotgun from the back, heading around to the side door he'd seen on the way in. He tucked the picks away as he saw the door knob hanging loosely from the door, and pushed it open.

The building was massive, built in a time when labour was cheap and plentiful. The rooms had almost Georgian proportions, spacious and airy, essential in the thick, humid summers of the south. He walked through the administration sections, flashlight illuminating offices and bullpens, a line of holding cells, and he walked deeper into the building, looking for B Block. All of the prison's buildings had been interconnected by closed tunnels or corridors after a tornado had passed through in '33, when half the inmates had been killed because they couldn't be gotten out of their cells in time. Now, he followed the signs down a long tunnel that led to the other block, feeling the temperature drop as the tunnel dipped down and then slowly rose again.

The air moved and sighed around him as he climbed the stairs into B Block. Somewhere a window had been smashed or left open, he thought, feeling no prickling on the back of his neck at the movement, just a natural draught. This building was more recent than the original. It was smaller, the ceilings lower, cells arranged in a grid that had created a warren of corridors and junctions, some of which had later been walled up to accommodate a growing prison population. He tried to keep his search methodical but realised that he was getting off the grid when he passed the same junction twice, the first time without recognising it. He stopped and looked around. Finding anything in here was going to take the three of them, he thought reluctantly. They could quarter the building and work their way inwards from the outside walls, figure out where the original plans had been changed and check the deviations.

He turned around and retraced his steps out of the building, back to the tunnel and the A Block.

They'd do it in daylight, come up in the morning and be out of here by dark. It hadn't escaped his notice that both of his boys were right in the middle of the demographic Salinger had preferred for his victims. He wasn't bringing them here after dark.

* * *

Dean lay on the narrow bed uncomfortably, listening to his brother's breathing, knowing that he wasn't sleeping. He didn't want to move in case it sparked another round of conversation about what had happened, Sam prodding and pressing at him to talk about how he felt. He felt betrayed. He felt lost. He felt alone. He couldn't say any of that to his little brother. And a part of him thought that Sam should have known how he felt, should have been feeling the same way. Hunting with his family was all he knew. It was all he wanted. Just the three of them together, watching each other's backs, looking out for each other. It was how he felt safe.

* * *

Sam lay awake on the other bed. Dean wasn't sleeping, he knew that. There had to be some way of getting through to him, but he'd run out of ideas. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe time would do it. They'd fought plenty of times, especially between the ages of twelve and eighteen. But it hadn't been like this. Those had been plain old sibling fights, rivalries and competitiveness. He didn't know what to call this. He couldn't change who he was for his brother, couldn't become something he wasn't.

* * *

The diner down the street from the motel served huge breakfasts and by the time the three men had finished them, the sky was pearly and streamers of gold and rose flowed ahead of the deepening blue. John had caught a weather forecast earlier; there was a general watch for thunderstorms over the next week but nothing specific for today.

They loaded the truck and car again. John told Sam to ride with Dean, ignoring Dean's stare. They drove up County Road 57, turning left onto 83 by nine. Dean eased the Impala over the bumps and around the potholes that his father blithely drove through, the stereo off and the car filled with a heavy silence. Neither of them had slept well the night before.

Following the truck around the main building, Dean parked beside it in the rectangular courtyard that sat between three of the prison's buildings, Blocks A, B and C. He turned off the engine and got out, going to the trunk to get shotguns, the small gear bag and flashlights. He handed Sam his gear without a word, shutting the trunk and following his father into A Block. Sam followed more slowly, his irritability with his brother's unwillingness to get past what had happened returning.

"Alright. Three buildings, only A has exits and windows in the exterior walls. B and C are completely enclosed; the only way in and out is through the tunnels that lead between them and A Block. Don't forget that. Make sure that no matter where you are in the building you know how to get back to the tunnels. You two stay together. Do not split up. Do not go looking for this thing on your own. Understand?" He looked from Dean to Sam. They nodded slowly, not looking at each other.

"We'll go through B Block first. We're looking for the chair. If you find it, salt and burn it. Then come back here. We clear?"

"Yessir," Dean said immediately. He shifted the bag more comfortably onto his shoulder and changed the shotgun to his other hand.

"Yes sir." Sam looked down at his flashlight, checking that he had fresh batteries.

The door shut behind them and they headed for the tunnel. Along the northern horizon, the blue of the day was fading, and a very low mutter sounded over the flat landscape.

Dean took point automatically, moving down the corridor from the junction where they'd split off from their father fast. Sam rolled his eyes and followed, annoyed at the move but not ready to argue about anything right now.

The corridors started out straight and obvious, but as they worked their way through them, down one, along another and then back up again, it became clear that a lot of modifications had taken place in the prison over the years. They came to dead ends and had to backtrack, followed corridors that seemed to be heading in one direction only to find that they'd somehow circled around and were back to the junction they'd started from.

"Think this is the spirit?" Sam asked quietly when they reached the same junction for the second time.

Dean shook his head. "Bad planning. They must have run out of room at some point, they've turned half the corridors into additional cells."

He looked at the cell door in front of him, forming a dead end to a corridor they should have been able to pass straight through. He shook his head and turned away, heading back the way they'd come. "Do you think we're getting closer to the centre of the building? Feels like we keep moving away, back to the outside walls."

Sam thought about the way they'd come. "I'm not sure. I think we should take one of the north-south corridors all the way to the end and see if we can get further east."

Dean nodded, turning right when they reached the junction, and walking determinedly south.

* * *

John walked in an inward spiral from the outside walls, listening to the EMF as it hummed in his hand. It wasn't much of a backup, but he hoped it would give him a few second's notice if the spirit decided to come after him first.

He'd already had to backtrack several times, and had the feeling there was a space that he wasn't able to get to, a couple of corridors that he could sense were there, but that didn't seem to have any access points. He wondered if the boys were finding the same thing on the other side. It might be what they were looking for, or it might be nothing. They wouldn't know unless they could find a way to get in there.

His ears barely registered the infrasonic frequencies of the approaching storm, but he could feel the vibrations of the thunder in his jaw bone and teeth and he stopped as a juxtaposition of ideas hit him at the same time. In his mind's eye he saw the roofline of B Block, the almost flat roof broken by a single tall rod. Lightning rod, his mind supplied the identification effortlessly. Lightning rod had to be grounded somewhere. There were no wires around the outside of the building, he'd checked that thoroughly. Grounded inside? Not grounded but still holding the line? Suddenly he knew how the ghost had been electrocuting people. Not where but how. The chair was here, in this block, somewhere in the spaces he couldn't get to. He felt a trickle of fear run down his spine at the realisation that his sons were walking into a trap that could only have been designed for them, for young men like them. He had to find them, now.

He turned back the way he'd come, racing up the corridor and making consistent turns until he reached the exterior wall again. He turned right and headed east, for the side that Dean and Sam were investigating. The blank wall that confronted him around the next corner was completely unexpected. He was sure he'd come this way last night, and it had been clear. He hit the wall with his fist, feeling the solidity of it, brick or stone, not drywall over frame, but solid right the way through. Swearing under his breath, he turned around and backtracked to the next junction, turning left and then right, hoping he would bypass the obstruction.

Outside, the wind rose ahead of the approaching storm. The cloud line was thick to the north now, black near the land, rising thousands of feet into the air in pillowing curves, the colours graduating from charcoal to pure white. In the lowest levels, lightning flashed and sheeted across the base.

* * *

Sam looked at the doorway suspiciously. Had that been there when they'd come down this corridor before? He couldn't remember it. All the walls and floors and ceilings had been painted and treated alike, but even so …

"Dean, have you seen this doorway before?"

His brother turned and looked back, his brows drawing together in an uncertain frown as he stared at it. He walked back to Sam, looking through the opening, his flashlight playing over bare walls and floor.

"I don't know. I don't think so. It doesn't look familiar." He looked down the corridor. "We've been down this one before," He gestured to the double doors at the end. "I remember those."

Sam nodded. "That's what I thought."

Dean flashed the light inside again, peering around the corner. Was that a door on the inside of the cell? He stepped through. Behind him the door slammed. He spun around, seeing the steel door with its barred window set into the top third of it. He could hear Sam's voice but when he looked out of the small window, the corridor was empty.

_Crap._

No wonder the kids had been taken so easily, he thought, the goddamned spirit was changing everything around, somehow.

"SAM! Sammy! Can you hear me?" he yelled through the window as loudly as he could.

"Yeah! Dean! Can you hear me?" His brother sounded distant, as if he were a couple of hundred yards away, not right outside the room.

"Go find Dad. GO GET DAD!" He turned away from the door, barely able to hear his brother's response. He needed to be ready for the mothering spirit. To his right there was definitely a doorway in the wall of the cell. He hesitated for a moment. If he found the chair, he could destroy the spirit. If he stayed here … the spirit had some way of electrocuting people, they just didn't know what it was. He didn't think he could get out the way he'd come in.

He walked through the door.

* * *

Sam raced down the corridor they'd come up, his memory prompting him at each turn and junction, right, left, left, left. He came to the original wide corridor where he and Dean had left their father and stopped.

"DAD!"

"Sam!" John's voice was distant but strong. Sam took off toward it, long legs flashing now as he heard his father calling.

John ran up the corridor toward Sam's voice, feeling his chest tighten. He turned the corner and almost ran into his youngest as the boy pelted around from the other side.

"Where's Dean?"

"He went into a cell and the door shut, but I couldn't see him in there, I could hear him but he sounded further away, he told me to get you." Sam panted out, turning and jogging with his father as John started back up the corridor.

"Do you know where you were?" John looked back. Sam nodded, stretching out his stride a little to bring him level with his father.

"Yeah, it was a corridor we'd been down twice before, had double doors at the end. We couldn't remember seeing the open doorway there before though."

"Just get me back there, Sam."

* * *

Dean walked down another corridor. They all looked identical. Same muted green paint on the walls, same filthy grey linoleum on the floors, doors spaced out the same … he tried to find anything in it that might suggest he and Sam had been down here before but there was nothing that stood out. His fingers were curled tightly around the shotgun, nerves on high alert, adrenalin pumping through his muscles. It was here, somewhere. His father hadn't told them what the man had done with his victims, hadn't let them see the full file, but he had a good imagination, and he'd seen the autopsy reports. He couldn't afford to let the bastard near him.

He turned another corner and saw a pair of double doors ahead of him. The sight made him increase his speed slightly, even though he didn't really believe that those doors would provide a way back to his brother. Far away, he could hear the low mutter of thunder and he felt his chest tighten. Every murder had been during a storm. The forecast had been clear but August in the south meant thunderstorms. They came up quickly, powerful cells that shook the earth and departed as swiftly as they'd arrived.

Ahead of him, he felt the air cooling. He stopped, looking around. His breath was fogging, the temperature around him dropping rapidly, ice crystals forming on his lashes and the glass of the window in the door to his right. He backed up against it, shotgun barrel raised, waiting for the spook to show itself. There was a faint click behind him, and the door swung open, and Dean stumbled back through, it, his arm flying out to catch the doorframe, but missing as the floor felt as if it was tilting, and his feet began to slide out from under him.

* * *

"Here." Sam stopped next to a blank stretch of wall, looking up and down the corridor carefully, judging the spot from the distance between the two sets of doors.

"It was right here." He slammed his fist against the solid wall. "There was a doorway, open."

John nodded. "It's screwing around with our perceptions, Sam. Somewhere along here there'll be another door, maybe hidden at the moment, that we can use to get through." He started walking slowly along the corridor, running his free hand over the wall. Sam watched him for a long moment, feeling his heartbeat settle slightly, and then moved to the other side, following his father's example.

They worked their way slowly down the corridor, unable to feel or sense anything out of the ordinary about the walls or doors. When they'd reached the double doors at the end, John shook his head, dropping his bag to the floor and pulling out the salt canisters.

"We'll have to get the sonofabitch to come to us." He poured out a line of salt along the floor, in front of the double doors. "Sam, walk up this side of the corridor, and put a salt line along every door."

"We need to look for Dean –" Sam could feel panic rising inside him, his brother was trapped somewhere inside these walls and the spirit was going to kill him. His mind was suddenly flooded with the dream memory, the memory of Dean screaming, and he spun around helplessly.

"SAM! Do it now! We have to get the ghost off your brother, and focus it on us." _On me_, he thought to himself, although how he was going to do that, he didn't yet know.

Sam dragged in a breath, trying to push aside the memory and his fear, and walked to the first doorway, pulling out the heavy canister of salt from his bag and laying down a line.

* * *

Dean slid down the floor and hit the wall as the door he'd come through slammed shut behind him. He looked around the room, picking up his flashlight and turning it on. It was a long room, with marks on the floor, as if pews or benches had rested for a long time over the hardwood boards. _Chapel?_ He pushed the thought away and turned around. The light beam picked up a gleam down the other end of the room and he walked slowly towards it. On either side of him, thick bunches of cables were fastened to the walls, and he knew what he was going to see even before the light picked it out, the square wooden chair standing on its own at the end of the room, the bundled wires leading across the ceiling and down to the floor, like snakes, trailing this way and that to the back of the chair. He stopped and turned, moving fast back toward the door of the room.

The first blow came out of nothing and nowhere, not even a drop in temperature to warn him. He felt the skin over his breastbone bruising as he flew backwards, the bag going one way, the shotgun careening off in the other. He hit the floor with a resounding crash, and scrabbled to his knees, and a second blow hit him high over the cheekbone, sending him staggering back toward the chair, his head ringing and his vision narrowing.

Dropping to the floor and rolling aside as fast as he could for the far wall, his hand stretched out for the shotgun that lay a few more feet away. His fingers were almost on the barrel when he plucked from the floor. The force that lifted him was immense, he was shaken furiously, and thrown again, this time a lot higher, soaring over the chair and hitting the wall on the opposite side of the chapel. He heard a snap, thought it might have been a rib or maybe his wrist, then he fell to the floor, and the explosion of pain in his arm at the impact verified that it had been his wrist.

He lay still for a moment, fighting against the greyness that was closing in around him, and felt his foot lifted, his head hitting the wall again as he was spun around and dragged across the floor.

* * *

John finished laying lines down the doorways on the side of the corridor. Sam had completed his side and the top, closing them into a long rectangle. _Come on_, John thought, _come on, we're boxing you in, come and get me_.

Sam leaned against the wall. He could hear the rumble of thunder outside the building now, low and ominous, and he was having a hard time keeping his fear and doubt locked down as he watched his father pacing in front of the blank wall where the doorway had been. Why were they just waiting here? There had to be another way in, a way to get his brother out.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes. His wrist was throbbing in waves of pain, something was tightly wrapped around it, and he could feel the ends of the bones grating against each other. He looked down and saw the leather strap over his arm, the automatic attempt to lift the other arm told him that there was another just like it wrapped over that as well. His ankles were similarly bound to the legs of the chair. Turning his head cautiously, his eyes widened as he watched a thick bundle of wire rising through the air, toward him, toward the chair, rising up to the ceiling over him and disappearing behind him.

_Oh, c'mon_, he thought shakily, wrenching at the straps that held his good arm. Even that movement brought another starburst of agony to the broken wrist and he stopped struggling for a moment, trying to hang on to consciousness.

The air around him was frigid, and the chair was coated in frost, and the floor and the cables. He looked up, feeling his head start to pound as he did so, the ceiling of the chapel soared high and he could see a skylight above him, the old-fashioned lead glass panes outlined as lightning flashed murkily through them.

The knowledge of how the ghost had been able to electrocute the victims came to him complete at the sight of the lightning. He remembered the tall rod on the roof of the building clearly, remembered seeing it as they'd driven in, not giving it a thought, it was such an ordinary sight. One wire from the rod to the chair and he was going to fry, riding the lightning himself. A bolt of fear crackled through him and he let his head drop, chin resting against his chest as he tried to clear his mind, to force his emotions back under control, sucking deep breath after breath to relax the muscles surrounding his chest.

There was a loud crack outside the building as the storm moved closer, lightning striking less than a mile away, and the rolling boom of thunder filling the air, resonating in his bones. Jesus, he had to get out of this goddamned chair! He pulled at the strap on his right wrist, if he could get a bit of play in the leather, stretch it a bit, get his hand out from under it …

The temperature in the room suddenly rose, and he stopped, looking around nervously. The ghost had gone, he could see the puddles where the frost was melting in the normal summer afternoon heat. There was only one reason for its disappearance and he blinked at the leather straps holding him to the chair, setting his teeth and trying to get some slack in the leather.

* * *

John stopped, watching the wall as the temperature dropped, the air becoming frosty, his sweat freezing on his body.

"Sam, get down to the other end, near the doors. Stay there and don't move, you understand?"

Sam nodded, backing away as he felt the air cooling. His gun was in his hand, his bag up near the doors. He needed to get the salt and butane out.

John turned around slowly, the shotgun barrel rising. A chill, directionless wind blew in the corridor, stirring some of the salt lines that lay along the visible doors. He waited, feeling his heart steady, his focus narrow. He felt the presence as it came for him, swinging around and firing down the corridor, feeling the ghost dissipate as the mix of rock salt and iron pellets blasted through it. He could feel a sense of rage, coming from outside himself, filling the air as the temperature fluctuated wildly around him. _Just keep fighting me_, he thought desperately, _stay away from my boy_.

* * *

Sam crouched on the floor by the salt line that shut off the corridor. He watched his father moving slowly, the gun's barrel rise and fire, felt the ghost's fury as its energy was shattered. He looked at the walls to both sides of the corridor, and froze as a doorway appeared, ghostly itself at first, the shadows through it visible before the doorframe had formed. He felt for the salt and butane, and ran, doubled over in case his father had to fire again, diving through the opening before John could stop him. The room was a normal ten by ten foot cell, then he saw another door manifesting on the opposite wall. He turned, hearing the door behind him slam shut, and looked back at the second door, running through it before he had a chance to think about it.

The corridor he ran into looked identical to the others, and he bit back a rising sob of despair as he realised he was still going to have to search, could still be too late.

"DEAN!?"

"Sam?"

Sam felt himself shudder in relief at the sound of Dean's voice, alive and somewhere close.

"Dean! I'm here, where are you?" He ran down the length of the hall, trying to hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

"Chapel," Dean's voice called out.

Sam saw the open door and raced through it, slowing as another crack of lightning filled the room, the thunder following barely seconds after. A flashlight lay against the far wall, its light reflecting onto the flat surface, throwing a little back into the long, narrow room. Sam almost stopped when he saw his brother, strapped into the old wooden chair.

"Sam, hurry, the chair's wired to the lightning rod." Dean looked up again, as another bolt of lightning crashed nearby. He wouldn't see the goddamn thing, he thought furiously, he'd just be cooked before he could do anything about it.

Running down the length of the room to the chair, Sam looked at the straps and buckles and pulled out the long skinning knife he'd taken to wearing whenever they were hunting. The blade was razor sharp and he slid it under the leather strap, drawing it up quickly, the old strap parting cleanly. Thunder boomed, rattling the building and Dean closed his eyes.

"If it hits you have to get back," he said hoarsely. "No point both of us dying, right?"

"Shut up and stay still," Sam snapped back at him, refusing to admit to the possibility that the storm might beat him. He cut through the other strap, grimacing as he saw the wrong-way bend Dean's wrist and crouched to slice open the strap holding his older brother's right ankle.

* * *

John stumbled backwards into the wall as the ghost struck him, his skull cracking against the brick. He turned and fired, hoping it was still there. His head snapped to one side as another blow struck him and he dropped the shotgun, falling to his knees, feeling a trickle of liquid down the side of his neck, his head ringing and his eye closing involuntarily as the flesh began to swell around it.

Reaching out for the gun, he realised he could hardly breathe through the frigid cold surrounding him as his fingers finally found and tightened on the barrel. He pulled it toward him, pushing up against the wall to get to his feet, and gasped as he felt himself lifted, straight up. He ducked his head, his shoulders slamming into the ceiling, the plaster crumbling under the impact. This time, he kept a death grip on the gun as he fell back to the floor, twisting in the air. He landed on the side of his back, ignoring the sudden pain of a rib cracking and fired into the air above him as Salinger's face manifested, a long-jawed, thin, misshapen face, the malicious smile stretching the mouth out wide, the eyes black pits.

The ghost dissipated for a second and he rolled to his feet, backing down the corridor, feeling the temperature dropping again, so much colder this time, his breath forming star whispers in front of his mouth. He wasn't ready for the grip that tightened around his neck, pressure crushing his throat, he could feel the cartilage flexing and depressing as the ghostly fingers pushed deep, cutting his air, cutting off the blood supply, killing him.

* * *

Dean felt his right arm yanked by his brother, jerking him out of the chair as the lightning hit the rod, travelling down the wire, the chair smoking as the enormous current crackled over the non-conductive wood and sparkled and snapped in every metal fitting and fastening. The room was filled with the scent of burning batteries, bitter and acrid. Sam lay partially under him, the two of them on the floor a few feet from the chair, watching as the smoke thickened and it burst into flame.

Rolling to his feet, he dragged his brother further away as the fire licked over the old, dry wood, sending out showers of sparks. Sam sat up as Dean dropped to the floor beside him, staring at the chair, his heart racing as the could-have-been flashed through his mind. _Could have been his brother sitting there. Could have been, might have been_ … he dragged in a breath and shook his head … _wasn't_.

Dean was next to him. Alive.

He turned to him and wrapped his arms around him, careful not to touch his brother's wrist, but holding him tightly, the reaction to the near-miss fizzing through his nervous system, through his blood. For a second, Dean froze, his chest and throat tight with all the things he'd wanted, and knew, somewhere down deep, that he wasn't going to have. Could've been forever, he thought, looking over his brother's shoulder at the burning chair. He could feel the trembling in his little brother's arms where they pressed close around him.

Pulling in a breath, he curved his good arm around his brother's shoulders. Too close, he thought tiredly. Way too close.

He waited for Sam's grip to loosen, then gently pulled away from him, looking up into his face, at the clean tear tracks that ran through the grime covering it.

"What took you so long?"

Sam shook his head, helplessly, his chest too tight to answer. His mouth twisted up as he looked away, around the room. He managed to pull in a breath slowly.

"Traffic," he said finally, his gaze rising to meet Dean's.

Dean smiled, nodding. "Thanks."

"No problem."

* * *

The corridors no longer had secret or hidden doors and they walked through them easily. John was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor of the corridor Sam had left him, rubbing his throat gently. He wouldn't be able to talk for a few days, he suspected. He looked up as his sons came out of the doorway, his mouth curving into a smile.

Sam ran to him, pulling him to his feet, looking at the dark marks that encircled his father's throat. The lightning had come at the right time for him. John looked at Dean, seeing his son's pain brightening the green eyes, glancing down at the swollen wrist he held against his chest. He nodded and saw the acknowledgement in Dean's face. It wasn't often they needed words to tell each other what they were thinking.

Sam picked up the other two bags, putting the shotguns into each. He walked a little of ahead of John and Dean, counting off the turnings as he remembered them, leading them back out.

* * *

_**I-65 N Alabama**_

Dean sat in the passenger seat of the black car, wishing he could scratch the damned itches inside his cast that were driving him crazy. He glanced at his brother. Sam was driving the Impala with the fierce concentration of a neurosurgeon, all too aware that he would be killed out of hand if anything happened to the car.

"Relax dude, driving should be fun."

Sam kept his eyes on the road. "That's funny. Obviously, you don't have a brother who would kill you if anything happened to his car."

Dean grinned, tilting his head slightly to let the warm breeze flowing through the window ruffle his hair.

"No. No brother like that," he said quietly. "I do have a brother though. Pretty cool one too. Saved my life."

Sam risked a quick sidelong glance. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Guess I owe him big time, huh?" He closed his eyes, lips slightly curved as he imagined Sam's expression.

"Guess you do." Sam's fingers tightened on the wheel. "Does that mean we're good?"

The curve became a little more pronounced. "Yeah, Sammy. We're good."

* * *

_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life. _

_~Antisthenes_


	23. Chapter 23 Bleeding Me

**Chapter 23 Bleeding Me**

* * *

_**January 2001. Laplant, Maine.**_

Dean looked over the ground as the beam of the flashlight played around the entrance to the mausoleum. He turned as he heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him.

"Well?" John stopped a couple of feet from him.

"Three sets of tracks, leading out of the crypt." Dean showed his father the tracks in the snow.

John shook his head. "Ghouls."

Dean nodded. "Not happy chowing down on dead flesh anymore either."

"No, those people taken on the county road, that'll be their work." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Alright, well, we all know the drill."

He looked around. "Where your brother?"

Dean looked away, feeling his heart sink. "He's, uh, hitting the books, looking up references, to, uh, to grave digging."

John stared at his eldest son. "Dean."

"He is." Dean lifted his head and looked at his father. "At the motel."

"He should be here, helping you."

"I don't need help with this. Like you said, we all know the drill, right?"

"Not the point." He stepped closer to his son. "You don't have to stick your neck out for him every time, Dean. Occasionally it would do him good to face up to the consequences of his actions."

He watched as Dean's head ducked, that characteristic gesture that meant he didn't agree, but he wasn't going to argue. John sighed.

"Tell Sam to make sure he gets his ass out here when we take these things on. They're almost always in packs and we'll need him."

"Yessir." Dean sucked in a deep breath, aware that his father was letting it go, this time.

"Alright. Let's get back to the motel and we'll do our prep work tomorrow. We'll take them out tomorrow night, there'll be a full moon."

Dean nodded and walked back to the Impala, hearing his father's footsteps moving away over the snow, the rumble of the Sierra starting up.

He'd have to figure out a way to stay between his father and brother for the next few days. Sam was in one of his moods, and Dad would only tolerate that for so long.

He unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel, leaning back against the seat. What was wrong with both of them? he thought irritably. Family shouldn't be at each other's throats every goddamned second week.

* * *

Sam looked up as Dean came into the room. "Did you find anything?"

"Ghouls. At least three of them." He pulled off his jacket and slumped onto the bed, rolling over to lie on his back.

"That's always fun." Sam wrinkled his nose and looked back at the book he was reading.

"Dad noticed you weren't there." Dean closed his eyes.

Sam looked at him. "What'd you say?"

"I said you were doing research, Sam," he answered tiredly. _I covered for you, like I always do_. Sam had been fighting for a long time. It wasn't just that his little brother and father butted heads on a regular basis. Sam didn't want to be here. He was getting that. He didn't know what to do about it. "He was pissed."

"He's always pissed at me." Sam sat up and closed the book. "Nothing I do is ever good enough."

"Come on, Sammy, that's not true, and you know it."

"Yeah? Does he double check the guns when you clean them? No."

Dean sighed. "I've been doing it a lot longer. That's all it is. He double-checked them for years before he decided I was doing it properly."

Sam shook his head. "That's not it, Dean. He's always on my case."

Dean rolled onto his elbow, looking over at his brother. "Maybe if you weren't bitching at him all the time, he wouldn't be. Would it kill you to just follow orders once without arguing about it?"

"I'm not his slave. You can be, if that's what you want, but it's not me."

"C'mon, man, can we lose the drama, Sam? Doing your job isn't being a slave."

"I don't want this goddamned job! I don't want this goddamned life!" Sam slammed his fist onto the bed.

They both heard the front door slam, the footsteps crossing toward their room. John opened the door and looked in.

"Dean, everything ready for tomorrow?"

"Yessir."

John turned to look at Sam. "You pull your weight tomorrow, Sammy. Work with your brother, you might learn something."

Sam turned away but not before both John and Dean had caught the mutinous expression on his face.

"Lights out in half an hour. Tomorrow's going to be full on."

"Yessir." Dean looked at Sam.

"Yes … sir." Sam muttered, getting to his feet and putting the book back on the shelf.

John watched him for a moment, then nodded, closing the door.

Sam turned back to Dean, his expression a plain I-told-you-so. Dean lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

"I told you he was pissed."

"He always pissed at me." Sam sat on the edge of his bed, pulling his boots off.

Levering himself upright, Dean rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. He was tired of defending his father to his brother, and defending his brother to his father. He wanted them to get on. He needed them to get on. The three of them, together, kept him going, kept him from thinking too much about what had already been lost.

He pulled off his shirt, dropping it on the floor, and got to his feet, turning around to look at his brother as his jeans joined the shirt on the floor.

"Sam, just … tone it down tomorrow, okay?"

Sam shook his head. "I will if he does."

Dean yanked back the covers and got into the bed, turning off the lamp beside it with a touch more force than was necessary. They were both stubborn, he knew. Neither one would give in until the other did. Result? No one gave in, ever. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, his heart contracting sharply as he wished … he wished it could be different.

* * *

John looked down at the snow in front of the mausoleum. The three sets of tracks leaving it were still clearly visible. But there no were tracks returning. He started to cast around a wider area. Still no incoming tracks.

"Dean." He waited for his son to walk over. "Check the cemetery perimeter for these tracks. They're going out but they're not coming back in, at least not here." He turned to look at Sam, who was sitting in the Impala.

"Sam!"

Sam looked up and got out slowly. "Yeah?"

John's jaw tightened slightly. "Check the perimeter with your brother."

Sam looked at him for a moment then nodded, shutting the Impala's door hard but just short of slamming it. Turning away, he walked across the crunching powder to his brother, shoulders slightly hunched.

John watched him go thoughtfully. His youngest was itching for a fight, he could see. If he kept up with the insubordination, he'd get one. He had no idea how or when Sam had gotten it into his head that he knew better than his old man about what to do in a hunt, but he was going to have to put a stop to it sooner rather than later. The constant bickering was distracting at best, not what they needed with the creatures they were hunting, but it was dangerous at its worst, taking attention away from what they were doing.

Mostly his eldest son's attention, John thought sourly, as Dean tried to run interference between the two of them. Dean had too many scars and too many near misses for him to let anyone create a distraction that would add to the count.

He pushed the thought away, bringing his focus back to the tracks, and the problem of where the fuck the ghouls were eating, since they obviously weren't bringing their kills back here.

* * *

Dean waited until they were on the other side of the cemetery, looking along the fence lines. "You call that following orders?"

Sam looked at him stubbornly. "What? I'm doing it, aren't I?"

"You were deliberately pushing him, Sam."

"I just didn't leap into action like you do. There's a difference." Sam looked down at the ground, looking for tracks.

"Why the hell do you want make him madder at you?" Dean watched him. _Why the hell are you trying to make things so hard on all of us?_ He thought, but didn't say. He rubbed his eyes, which felt as if they had a ton of grit in them. He hadn't gotten more than an hour's sleep last night, restless with worry about the two of them. He could see the fault lines widening, and no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing he could do to close them.

"I just want him to acknowledge that I can do the job my way."

"Acknowledge? You want him to _acknowledge_ that you can do the job? Jesus," Dean looked away, face twisting in defeat. "How 'bout you _acknowledge_ that you're making it harder for all of us to do the job, Sam?"

Sam stopped walking and looked back at his brother. "If that's the way you want to see it, go right ahead."

Dean turned away. He didn't want to fight. "Why don't you take this side, and I'll go around the other way? We'll get it done quicker."

"Fine." Sam turned abruptly and kept going.

"Yeah. Fine." Dean turned around and backtracked to where they'd started, then worked his way slowly in the opposite direction.

* * *

"Did you find anything?" John came in through the door, a flurry of snow accompanying him as he stamped and wiped his boots on the mat. He walked to the small fridge in the kitchenette and pulled out a bottle of beer, dropping into a chair at the table and opened it.

Sam looked up from the couch. On the low table in front of him, copies of the town's plans, rates and utilities connections sat in meticulous piles.

"No, not yet." He glanced at his brother. Dean was in the armchair opposite, hunched over the file of police reports. Missing persons reports, since no bodies had been found, although in the last two, foul play was suspected, his brother had told him derisively.

"Keep looking. There has to be something around here that they're using, that isn't obvious." He leaned back in the chair, thinking about how to get to them. Ghouls were territorial and it wasn't this hard to track them down, usually. They were also greedy, in the conventional sense.

"I think we'll have to set a trap for them." He looked at the boys. "A woman was taken from her yard last night. Last house on the road out of town. The nearest neighbour is a quarter mile away and of course, heard nothing."

Dean nodded. "No body found?"

"No."

"What'd you have in mind?" He flicked a glance at his brother. Sam was listening, he could tell, even though his eyes were glued to the county records files in front of him.

"Car breakdown, somewhere in the middle of the last three attacks," John said, running an impatient hand through his hair.

"Have to be just one of us, they won't come near if there are two."

John nodded. "We'll use the radios, keep in touch so as soon as they come, there'll be backup."

"I'll be the bait." Sam looked up at him.

"No," Dean countered immediately, shaking his head. "No way. I'll be bait. You're backup, with Dad."

John looked at them for a moment then nodded. "Dean'll play bait. Sam, we'll need the radios set to channel fifteen. Put one in the Impala, the other in the truck."

Sam nodded.

"Dean, you'll need the usual plus a machete. You get into close-quarter work, you take off the head, alright?"

Dean nodded. He got to his feet, pulled the gear bag from beside his father's bed and opened it. Several machetes lay in there, their edges razor sharp. He picked one up, hefting it for balance, for weight. It would do.

"Okay. Let's get this organised and we'll take off around eight o'clock." He stood up, and looked back at Sam.

"Keep working on those files as well. They were in the mausoleum, there must be someway to get in that we're not seeing."

* * *

"Check this out."

Sam looked at the map from the phone company, open on the table. "This place has been off the records for the last twenty years. Not even taxes. And it's only a half-mile from the cemetery, as the crow flies."

Stopping behind him, Dean leaned over his shoulder to look at the position of the house Sam was pointing at. "Might be something. It looks like it's close to town. Wouldn't someone have noticed if there were rotting bodies there?"

"It's actually way back from the road." Sam pulled another map from the pile beside him, and spread it out. "See? There's just this track to the house, nearly a mile from the county road."

"Better tell Dad."

"Yeah." Sam looked at the map for a moment longer, then glanced at his watch. "Damn, I'll just do the radios first."

Dean shook his head, yawning. "I'll do the radios, you go tell Dad about the house."

* * *

"Dad?" Sam walked out to his father, bent over the engine of the Sierra as he checked the fluids.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, I've found a house that might fit." He leaned on the grill, watching his father's profile.

"Yeah? Tell me."

"It's been off the books for twenty years. No taxes paid even. It's about half a mile from the cemetery, cross country, but nearly four miles if you go by road. It's sitting off the road, nearly a mile back in the woods."

John nodded. "Sounds like it might be what we're looking for. Do you want to check it out? Take your brother?"

He leaned back out of the engine bay and looked up. "You've got a couple of hours before dark."

"Yessir." Sam straightened up.

"Sam?" John looked at him as he turned back. "Be careful. Ghouls work at night but not because they have to. Take the Taurus. Headshot or decapitation, remember."

"Sure." He walked back to the house to get his brother.

* * *

Dean winced as the Impala bounced over the humps in the road. "Sonofabitch. We should have brought the truck."

"Nearly there. Look." Sam pointed through the windshield to a roof just visible beyond the trees.

"Good."

The house was a two storey, built in the thirties. The porch ran around two sides, a warm place to sit, or dry produce, in the winter months. Covered in snow, and in the pale late afternoon light, it almost looked habitable, the warped boards and holes in the roof hidden from sight.

They took the automatics and flashlights from the trunk, and Dean climbed warily onto the porch, feeling the old boards flexing under his weight as he approached the front door. Behind him, Sam's gaze covered the ground, looking for anything that might support the assumption that the ghouls were using the place.

The front door opened readily, with a shriek of corroded and oilless hinges. Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped through it. So much for the element of surprise, he thought in annoyance, walking down the short hall.

To his left, a door opened into a sitting room, and the staircase took up half the width of the hall, rising to the first floor. To his right, a door to the living room and a narrower hallway led back into the house, to the kitchen, he thought. He followed the hallway, passing a long, narrow dining room on the way, emerging into a large, square kitchen. The windows all around the room were open, the cold air inside freezing and puddles of water sat on the linoleum where the snow had blown in and melted then refrozen.

"Dean." Sam's hiss came from the hall, and he turned around, shining the light over the room before heading back out. There was only one other door, solid timber with panes of glass set into the top half, leading to the outside.

"What?"

Sam's light shone on the second stair of the flight. In the middle a boot print had been left in a dark, rusty colour. They looked at each other, then Dean started up the stairs, shifting to the edge closest to the wall, Sam following after he'd gone up a few steps.

The first storey comprised of a central hallway and bedrooms to either side, a small bathroom at the end. The bedrooms were empty, but the bathroom had been used recently. A pinkish ring ran around the tub, about halfway up.

"Butchering here?" Sam looked at the ring.

"Looks like." Dean crouched, looking at the floor. Droplets of the same dark rusty coloured liquid had fallen in a spray across the floor and under the sink. Not strong enough for arterial, he thought, maybe just a fall pattern, if someone had turned suddenly while carrying a body – or body part. He scratched at a droplet with his nail. It was dried up, powdery.

"Not for a while."

He stood up. Maybe they had used the house at one time. Maybe a more regular kind of killer had been here. He wasn't sure. There were no fresh traces of anything. He gestured to Sam to go out.

Ghouls, like wendigos, started out eating dead human flesh, usually in a pack situation, at least two or three, but often more, depending on where they were living. Once they started, they couldn't stop and after a while they began to change. They were strong, very strong. And hungry all the time. None of the usual stuff worked on them. They couldn't care less about salt, silver, holy water or iron. They could take on the appearance of the last person they'd eaten. It made them harder to find, if their minds were still sharp enough to take care with their hygiene and appearance. Most weren't.

He rubbed his eyes again as he came down the stairs after his brother.

* * *

At four, a cold, red sunset stained the snow bloody as the shadows faded into twilight, and by five, darkness had settled over the town.

Dean checked his Colt, putting it into his jacket pocket along with a second full clip in the other pocket. He'd memorised his position on the road. His father knew where the car would be. The machete was in the car. He repressed a yawn as he tried to think of anything else he needed.

"I still think that house is the only place they could be using." Sam looked at his father.

"Maybe. Did you check it through thoroughly?"

"Didn't have time. Dean, did you see the basement?" Sam asked.

He looked up and shook his head. "I couldn't see a second door in the kitchen. Just one leading out the back."

"We could have missed something, easily. The bathroom was definitely used at some time."

"Yeah, well it was good research anyway, Sammy." John slapped the magazine home in the gun he'd just cleaned and looked at him.

"Uh, thanks." He shuffled the files on the table in front of him.

Dean watched the apparent truce between his father and brother as the minutes ticked on into hours. Both were doing their utmost to be civil to each other, and he wondered if they were putting in the effort to stop him from worrying about them being together while he was playing tethered goat.

He looked at his watch. Seven-fifteen. Time to get going.

* * *

He drove along the county road slowly, looking at the mile markers, looking for his landmarks. When he saw the lightning-struck tree, he killed the engine, coasting to the side of the road and pulling up. He made a fuss about getting the hood open, getting the flashlight out, and leaned over into the engine bay, the light shining down as he slipped the distributor cap off and tucked it alongside the battery. He muttered to himself and got back in the car, turning the key and listening to the starter motor crank over a few times.

Satisfied that he'd established enough of a cover for anything that might be watching, he looked around for the radio, casually at first, then more thoroughly as he couldn't see it, couldn't find it. He remembered telling Sam he'd put it in … and then he realised that he hadn't.

The snap of the branch was only a few feet away and he swung around, his hand going to his pocket, fingers curling around the ivory grip and pulling out his auto as the grey shadows came out of the trees.

* * *

Sam ran his hand through his hair, ignoring it as it flopped back down over his forehead. He was missing something, he thought. Something about the house, the cemetery. He looked again at the maps from the utility companies, tracing the lines and connections and junctions with his fingertip.

Some of them were big. There were no dimensions marked on the maps, but they looked big, maybe even big enough for a person to get through.

"Dad, I think there might be a tunnel going from the house to the mausoleum," he said as they sat waiting in the truck. "Look at this."

John turned on the interior light and looked at the phone company line, shown on the county map. It passed close by the cemetery, from the house, going into the exchange in town.

"That size, it might fit a person through. It's only a few yards from the mausoleum. What if there is a basement in the house?"

"Maybe. It's too late to check it out now." John shook his head, passing the maps back to Sam.

"It could be how they get from the cemetery to the house, leaving no tracks. It's only a few hundred yards that way, instead of miles."

John nodded distractedly, looking at the time. Eight-ten. He should have been there by now, should have drawn them out. Should have _called_ by now. He looked across at Sam, sitting against the passenger door and leaning on the closed window.

"You put the radio into the Impala, right, Sam? Channel 15?"

Sam turned around and looked at him, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Dean had said he'd do it. He couldn't imagine his brother forgetting something like that. His father was waiting for an answer.

All the times that his brother had taken the fall for him because he hadn't done something, or had forgotten something, or hadn't done it right came back to him in a rush. He wasn't going to push this off onto Dean now.

"I–I– I must have forgotten." He looked back at the door of the motel room. "I'm sorry –"

Looking into his father's face as his expression changed, Sam also remembered how frightening his father could be in a fury. His eyes were black with rage, brows drawn down over them, the skin stretched tight across the bones.

"Sorry? For fuck's sake .. get out, now!" John lunged past him, opening the passenger door. "Stay in the motel. Don't move from there."

"Dad, we could take the tunnel, if he's at the house –"

"Goddammit, Sam! Get out!"

Sam scrambled out, and barely got clear before the Sierra roared away, heading up the road. He looked down at the files in his hands. He could get there faster, he knew he could. He ran back to the motel room and opened the door, dropping the files on the couch as he grabbed another flashlight from the gear bag, hesitating for a moment by the second bag that held more prosaic tools then picking up a crow bar as well. The mausoleum door had been padlocked, he remembered.

* * *

The roar of the Colt filled his ears, the shot taking the first ghoul in the head as it came down the high snow-covered bank above him, his back pressed against the car. The body fell on top of him, the weight and momentum coming down from the bank outweighing the impact of the bullet. Dean was forced down to his knees under it, his hand trapped against his chest, and he felt panic rising as he heaved with his free arm, aware that the thing hadn't been alone, unable to see where the others were.

The second ghoul reached his side while he was struggling to free himself, the rancid stench of it bringing his head around to stare into blood-rimmed eyes. He didn't see the third one, coming around the front of the car, the short iron mallet held in its hand swinging hard and connecting with the back of his skull.

Dean crumpled to the ground, slumped over the ghoul he'd killed, the Colt dropping from his nerveless fingers. The gun bounced on the asphalt, and came to rest under the car. The ghouls looked at each other and took hold of the bodies.

The drag marks up the snow bank were obvious. In amongst the trees, where the snow had fallen thinly they were harder to see.

* * *

John found the Impala by the side of the road where Dean had told him it would be. The hood was raised and the driver's side door was open, the interior light on and showing the car to be empty. He parked the Sierra behind it, and closed the hood and the door, casting around the car for signs. Two bodies had been dragged away, he realised, looking at the marks in the snow bank and the two trails. Dean had hit at least one ghoul, the trail showed a mess of grey brain and yellow fluid up the bank and into the trees. The second trail was bright with blood, staining the snow pink and receding as it went under the trees and through the leaf matter.

He ran back to the truck and drove on, finding the turnoff to the dirt road that Sam said had led to the house in another hundred yards. The Sierra's big tyres spat out snow and gravel and dirt as he accelerated up it.

* * *

"He killed Fred!" The hiss was outraged.

Dean felt fingers on his wrists, on his legs, the hardness of wood under his back. His head was throbbing, bulging in and out in time with his pulse. He tried to open his eyes.

"Fred was careless." A second voice was closer, low and toneless.

"We should kill him now."

"And waste all this good meat? Don't be ridiculous." The second voice rose slightly.

"He'll taste just as good dead."

"You know that's not true. They taste much better when they've been bled out."

Sharp pain along his forearms. He lifted his head slightly, trying to ignore the flash of light behind his eyes, struggling weakly against the bonds that held his arms and legs.

"Keep fighting, boy. Keep that heart pumping strongly. You'll bleed out faster that way."

He couldn't open his eyes, they felt stuck together somehow. But now he could feel the soft movement of liquid over his skin. His blood, he thought, running out of him.

* * *

Sam swung the bar against the padlock. It broke off easily, and he flipped the hasp back, the door opening inward as he pushed. Two short steps led down into the small room, slippery with decayed humus from the leaves that had blown in under the door over the years. He switched on his flashlight, looking over the walls carefully. The ten plaques that covered the slots for the dead were all fixed tightly in place, moss and lichen growing around the edges. Two other plaques stood at the end of the room, and the lower one wasn't quite as tight as the others, the rims clean. Sliding the flat end of the crowbar under the edge, he prised it out, the heavy iron sheet hitting the marble floor with a ringing clang. The flashlight's beam showed a narrow tunnel extending from the original slot into the earth beyond. The surface was rough, and he could see where the roots of plants had been cut as the tunnel had been dug out.

He slithered into the narrow space, wriggling forward on his forearms and knees and toes, the flashlight held tightly as he worked his way out of the crypt's tomb and into the dirt tunnel that extended beyond it.

He thought it rose slightly as he met the junction where the roughly-dug tunnel met the phone company's slightly larger conduit. The cables were still there, and he had a little more room. The entrance to the mausoleum must have been for access to the graveyard, he thought, unused since the ghouls had begun taking live victims. He couldn't see or, more to the point, smell any remains along here. Whatever they'd been doing had to have been confined to the house.

Switching the flashlight off quickly as he saw a lightening in the darkness ahead of him, he realised he could smell the first hints of rot, coming down the tunnel on a draught of cold air. Slatted boards covered the entrance to the tunnel and he paused in front of them, looking through the gaps into a long dirt-floored cellar, lit by a couple of bare bulbs. He couldn't see Dean within his field of vision, but he could see several tables with the remains of people on them, and his gorge rose as he saw what had been done to them.

He listened and waited for a few minutes before he thought it would be safe enough to go in. The boards gave way easy, the nails loose in their holes and they dropped to the floor with hardly a sound. Crawling out, he landed on his hands, and got to his feet slowly, turning to take in the whole area.

The cellar's walls were dirt, braced to support the house above with massive roughly sawn timbers, but not lined. The ceiling was low, a few inches over his own height, the joists bare and dark with age. Some shelving had been built against one wall, a recessed doorway built between them. The rest of the space was open, the dirt floor roughly levelled, and he could see dark stains around and under the tables, his skin paling a little as he thought of what had soaked into the earth there.

Four corpses lay on the tables, two of them still recognisably human, missing a few parts. The other two were no more than piles of flesh and bone, the meat turned grey and exuding the sweetish odour of decomposition. He hurried away from them, his stomach roiling.

In the corner, sawn slab steps rose to a trap door in the ceiling. That's why his brother hadn't seen another door, Sam thought irrelevantly. Water was dripping through the boards of the floor above, soaking into the dirt and churned up with the footprints that criss-crossed the damp patches. The air in the cellar was cold, but not cold enough for anything to freeze down here.

He was halfway across the room when he heard it, the raw screak of a door opening, down here in the cellar. He turned, unable to see where the door was, or a place that he could hide, backing fast toward the steps as the ghoul came out from between the shelving on the long wall to his right. It turned and stopped as it saw him, and he stopped as well, knowing he wouldn't make it up the steps and out of the room before it was on him.

He dropped the flashlight to the floor, feeling for the Taurus in his pocket, sweat breaking on his forehead as he realised that he'd left it in the truck when he'd gotten out. The crowbar was heavy in his left hand and he closed both hands around the straight end, lifting it as the ghoul began to move toward him.

Shorter and stockier, the flesh grey and sagging and pocked, the eyes staring at him were yellowed and red-rimmed in the murky light. Its clothing was little more than rags, fluttering and twisting as it increased its speed, the wrappings on its feet making almost no sound on the hard dirt floor. Sam waited, finding his balance, looking for an opening.

* * *

The Sierra swung around, the rear end skidding out as it made the turn in front of the house, the door flying open before it had stopped. John jumped out, the automatic in his right hand, a machete in his left, the long blade winking in the moonlight. He took the steps up to the door in a single long stride, and twisted, his momentum and weight an irresistible force as his edge of his boot sole met the door just under the handle and it flew open, hitting the wall behind it with a crash.

Inside, the house was chequered in black and white, the moonlight falling through the windows, reflecting up onto the walls. His gaze swung around the hall, taking in the layout of the house, and he ran straight down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, knowing suddenly what he was looking for, what he'd find. Older houses, particularly those in cold rural areas, had root cellars. Root cellars had trapdoors more often than not. He slowed as he entered the kitchen, looking for the tell-tale lines across the floorboards.

_There_.

* * *

Sam swung the bar as the ghoul closed with him, feeling it punch through the soft meat of the creature with an inward blaze of satisfaction. Its fingers were reaching for him, and he remembered his father's warning about their strength, ducking back, as the tips closed around his jacket. He pulled hard and felt the fingers slipping free, turning fast in a full circle and raising the bar, the force of the turn adding to the strength of his arms.

He caught a glimpse of the ghoul's face, turning toward him as the bar struck, the reddened eyes widening in surprise. Then the flattened edge of the iron bar broke through the bone, and the eyes disappeared in a spray of blood, along with the nose and the upper jaw. It was flung backwards by the force of the blow, and hit the ground a couple of feet away. Sam followed, his stomach clenching but unwilling to take a chance that the single blow was enough. Swinging the crowbar over his head, he brought it down into the broken skull at his feet, pulverising the remains.

"God, I love it when we get home-delivery."

The voice was behind him, and he spun around, his heart hammering. The ghoul looked down at its companion and sighed.

"Poor Thomas." It looked back up at Sam and grinned. "Ah well, more for me."

Sam felt his stomach lurch again as he noticed the flesh and blood over its teeth. He swung the crowbar up again, bringing it down in a hissing arc toward the creature in front of him.

The ghoul caught it in one hand, and yanked it free of his grip, throwing it across the long room.

"I don't think so, kiddo."

He didn't see the fast-moving jab, and found himself lying on the dirt several feet from the steps, the side of his face aching, with no memory of what had happened in between. The ghoul grinned at him.

"You're not really a hunter, are you, boy?"

Sam scrambled backwards as the ghoul came for him, a bolt of pain exploding in his shoulder as he tried to put his weight on it and it gave way immediately. He tucked the arm against his chest and tried to shift his weight to the other side, but he was moving too slowly, he couldn't get his weight over, to get onto his knees. He felt the ghoul's hands close around his jacket, hauling him effortlessly to his knees, the shoulder shrieking at the sudden movement and his vision beginning to close in as the pain overwhelmed his nervous system.

The trap door flew open and the ghoul's head snapped around. The noise of the shots were huge in the confined space, two in quick succession and then a third a moment later.

Sam fell sideways, straining to see through the grey shadows crowding at the edge of his vision, his eyes opening wide. Next to him, the ghoul's body was twitching slightly, but there was little left of the head.

"God, how did you-?" His father was by his side, lifting him up, his face drawn as he looked at Sam's shoulder.

"Tunnel – was – quicker." Sam forced his eyelids to stay up, looking at his father.

John nodded and shifted his son's weight to his shoulder, hoisting him to his feet and half-dragging him to the steps. He settled him there, leaning against the post at the bottom, lifting Sam's elbow and rotating it upward and away from his body. Sam felt sweat pouring down his face as the muscles and tendons surrounding the joint were stretched out further, the pain rising to agony, then the ball went back into its socket, and the pain vanished, leaving only a dull ache. He looked up at his father, his held-in breath exploding out and nodded, hoping it was a reassuring nod. The tracks of his tears had left clean trails through the dirt and blood on his face.

"Where's Dean?" John's voice was shaking, and Sam shook his head.

"I didn't get a chance to search. There's a door on that wall." Getting to his feet cautiously, he followed his father as he turned away and moved to the wall.

"God, _no_."

John disappeared between the shelves and Sam lengthened his stride to follow him, coming through the shadowed doorway as John moved to the table. Sam stopped, his chest frozen as he looked at his brother, breath refusing to come or go.

Bound to the narrow table, his blood flowing slowly but steadily from the long gashes in his forearms into buckets that had been positioned on the floor beside the table, Dean's skin was white. Sam couldn't see any movement at all.

"Sam, get me the first aid kit from the truck." The command cracked like a whip, breaking through his shock and Sam turned and ran from the room, through the cellar and up the stairs.

John cut the thin rope that had held his son to the table and pulled the tape from his eyelids. Dean was still breathing, his heart still pumping, very slowly now, shock had settled in, and from the amount of blood lost, his pressure was low and dropping. Still alive, he told himself, trying to counteract the ice cold that seemed to fill him with some kind of hope. Still alive and his boy was hard to kill. His hands pressed the edges of the wounds together as tightly as he could on both arms and he waited, the familiar strands of shame and guilt and anger fluxing through his mind.

* * *

He looked up as he heard the thump of feet on the cellar steps, Sam bursting through the doorway with the medical kit in his hands.

"Hold them, tight like this," he ordered his youngest son, watching as Sam closed both hands around Dean's right arm while John applied the thick dressing and wound a pressure bandage from wrist to elbow. They repeated the process on the left arm and Sam grabbed the kit.

"Get the truck started, I'll bring him up."

He watched Sam disappear ahead of him, and put his arms under his son's shoulders and knees. Kid was nearly as big as he was, it wasn't the best way to carry him but he couldn't risk the wounds opening again and they would with any other position. He lifted him slowly, shifting his grip until Dean's head lay tucked against his shoulder, both arms curled inward over his chest. Then he turned and walked out of the room, moving as fast as he dared up the steps and into the kitchen, hearing the deep rumble of the truck's engine in the yard as he came along the hall and out onto the porch.

* * *

_Hospital_, Dean thought before he'd opened his eyes. The smells and sounds were unmistakable. _Another goddamned hospital_. He lifted his hand, feeling a tug on his arm and opened his eyes cautiously. A long tube ran from his arm to a bag of blood hanging beside him. Refill, he thought, and for some reason he found it funny, felt his mouth widen into a smile.

"Hey."

His father's voice. He turned his head. Dad sat beside the bed, his eyes warm with relief. Dean looked at the grey tinge under his father's skin and realised that he'd probably walked a bit closer to death this time than he had before. He remembered feeling the blood run out, the coppery tang of it filling the room as it trickled and dripped into the buckets, making a thick, wet sound. He remembered feeling tired.

"You get the ghouls?" His voice came out whispery, and he coughed slightly, running his too-big tongue around the dry interior of his mouth.

"Yeah." John turned around and got a glass of water from the nightstand beside him. He held it while Dean sipped through the straw, nodding when he'd had enough.

"Dean." Sam stood in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee.

"Hey, Sam."

"Uh, how're you feeling?" Sam handed the coffee to his father and walked around to the other side of the bed.

"A couple of pints short." Dean glanced at the bag beside him. "Tired. Okay."

He looked at his brother. "Guess you're gonna be running point on the hunts for awhile."

"No. Sam's going to be doing the grunt work till you get right, Dean." John's voice was low and hard.

"He wouldn't be here if you'd listened to me about the house," Sam said tightly, looking away.

"He wouldn't be here if you'd done what I told you to do and put the fucking radio in the car," John countered, his voice rising.

"Hey. Hey guys, sick man here." Dean looked from one to the other, watching their anger rise too quickly, helpless to stop it as he lay between them. "Cut it out."

"What kind of father uses his own son for bait for monsters, Dad?" Sam swung around and stared at John, ignoring Dean. "What kind of father drags his sons around the country looking for monsters?"

John's flinch was barely visible. "This is what we do. This is all we do. You better get your head around that, Sam."

"Or what?" Sam's face hardened. "What are you gonna do?"

"Don't you fucking well push me, Sam," John's voice deepened. "You didn't do what you were told. You didn't do your job!"

"You wanna talk about not doing your job? How about your job? How about raising kids in a nightmare? How about not protecting Mom when –"

John's face darkened. "Don't talk to me about your mother, you don't know what happened –"

"You never told us!" Sam shouted suddenly. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because you were kids! And you couldn't handle it – you still can't handle it." He gestured to Dean. "Look at him; he nearly died because you think you're somehow above following orders. You haven't been doing things right for a while now, and I've let it go but that ends right now." He stood up. "All you had to do was put the fucking radio in the fucking car. How is it even possible that you screwed that up?"

Dean felt his chest hitch as he looked at Sam's face. "Dad, wait a minute – "

"Guess I'm a screw up, Dad. You can take the heat for that, you raised me."

"Yeah, not like this I didn't. Maybe it's the –" he caught himself before the words came out and closed his eyes tightly.

"What?" Sam caught the slip and his eyes narrowed. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe I put too much responsibility on your brother and not nearly enough on you, Sam."

"Well you sure as shit took our childhoods, Dad. Dean got his cut short and I never had one at all."

"Jesus! Stop it! Shut up, both of you!" Dean sucked in a deep breath, his voice cracking, the heart monitor and BP monitor both beeping fast. They looked at him. "Sammy, get out. Please. Just get out of the room."

Sam looked at him, his mouth compressing tightly. He walked around the bed and past his father, his eyes fixed on the door. John watched the monitors until he'd gone.

"Dad, he didn't screw up with the radios, I did. I told him I'd do it and I forgot, alright?"

John shook his head. "Stop it. Okay? Just stop covering for him."

"I'm not." He gripped John's hand, staring at him fiercely. "I'm not. I told him I'd do it, when he found the information on the house. I forgot. _Me_. I forgot. Not him."

Sam leaned against the wall outside the room, his heart racing as he listened to his brother. It didn't matter, not really. This had been coming for a long time. Now, it was finally here.

John looked down at his son's face, knowing he wasn't lying.

"It doesn't matter, Dean. Sam's been fighting me for a while now. It's got to stop. Sooner or later it's going to get one of us killed – when he doesn't follow an order, or do what he's been told to do. I can't risk that."

"What are you saying?" He levered himself up the bed slightly, stopping only when his vision blurred.

"We'll go back to Jim's. Sam can do research for us, but he'll stay there, under Jim's eye. I'm not risking your life again – or mine, or his."

"You're talking lockdown." Dean let go of his father. "Dad, you can't. That'll just drive him further away. Do you want him to bail? _Please_, Dad, don't do it."

"Maybe. But it's the only way. At the moment, nothing is working. You're wasting your time and energy on trying to keep us together. I'm not convinced that Sam is following the orders he's given. Without trust and loyalty, we're not a team. And if we're not a team, then we're in danger."

"No." Dean shook his head. "This isn't the way to do it. Dad, I'm begging you – don't."

"I'm sorry, Dean, but I'm not going to reconsider this."

Dean closed his eyes.

Outside, Sam looked up the hallway. He'd been expecting something like this. He couldn't buckle down and follow orders like Dean. He needed to know why they did something, not just how to do it. He would find out soon anyway, the return address on all his applications were Blue Earth. And then … by summer, he'd know. One way or the other he would go.

* * *

_I wanted them to tell me why they were fighting. Why they kept hurting each other like this. Why it was that the two men who meant the whole world to me...had to act like - children. But most of all, I just wanted them to stop._

_~ The Wonder Years_


	24. Chapter 24 Until It Sleeps

**Chapter 24 Until It Sleeps**

* * *

_**May 21, 2001. Blue Earth, Minnesota**_

Jim Murphy stood by his mailbox, looking thoughtfully down at the envelope he held in his hand. In the top left hand corner, the elegant logo was unmistakeable, the postmark opposite verifying it. He sighed.

All things change, and all children grow up. He wondered if John would be able to see it that way.

* * *

Sam looked up from his research as he heard footsteps on the porch. The cabin was isolated, set off a narrow tar road that led nowhere in particular. He heard the double knock and grinned, getting up and going to the door.

"Hey, Jim."

"Hey, Sam." Jim looked at him for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful, then he pulled the letter from his jacket pocket and handed it to the young man.

"Came for you today." He watched Sam's eyes widen as he took in the logo, his fingers fumbling with the adhesive on the envelope's lip. "That what I think it is?"

Sam nodded, turning and walking back inside, the open door a tacit invitation to the priest who followed him in.

Sam ripped the envelope finally and pulled out the letter, his eyes running rapaciously over the words, racing down the page the first time, then returning to the top and going down more slowly again.

He looked up at Jim, the smile just starting around his mouth, his eyes alight and crinkling up as emotion flooded him.

"Got in. I got in."

Jim smiled at the disbelief that lay alongside Sam's joy. "You sound surprised?"

"Yeah, sure – I mean, it's Stanford, man." Sam looked at him, shaking his head slightly. "I can't believe it. I _do _believe it, just … I can't believe it."

The smile widened and Jim walked over to him, pushing him back into the chair and turning to the kitchen. "Calls for a celebration, eh? When's your dad getting back?"

Sam's elation fled instantly. "Jim, you can't tell him about this."

Jim had filled the kettle and was turning to put it on the stove. He stopped halfway there.

"What? Why not?"

"Please, Jim, _please_ – don't tell him. I'll … I want to tell him myself, when I'm ready. Please, don't say a word about it, okay?"

Jim's brows drew down together as he saw the raw entreaty in Sam's face, a mixture of fear and uncertainty and supplication that sat ill on the young man's features and somehow made Jim feel as if he'd just killed the boy's dog.

"Okay, Sam. Sure. I'm not going to steal your thunder, boy. You can relax." He put the kettle on the stove and lit the burner, hearing the gusty exhale behind him.

"Just one question, Sam?" Jim turned around to face him again. "You gonna be able to afford this fancy college?"

Sam shook his head. "I applied for a scholarship; I think my grades are good enough. I won't find out about it for a few more weeks though."

"So I guess I should hang onto that letter as well?"

"Yeah. If you could, I'd really appreciate that."

Jim nodded, turning back to the counter and setting out a couple of clean cups. Like John, his own higher education opportunities had come on Uncle Sam's dime, delivered after a stint in that man's army and two tours in Korea. He knew that college was expensive, it was one of the primary worries he heard in his parish, the cost of sending the kids to get a better education than their parents had had. He leaned against the counter, looking at the fever-bright spots of colour on Sam's cheeks.

"What are you going to study?"

Sam looked up and shrugged. "Law, I think."

Jim's mouth stretched into an involuntary smile. "You're going to become a lawyer?"

Sam ducked his head. "Sure, why not?" He looked back up at Jim. "At least then when you and Dad and Dean get into trouble, there's someone respectable to bail you out."

Jim laughed. "Hadn't thought of it quite that way. It's a point."

* * *

Jim had been gone for over an hour when Sam heard the truck pull in front of the house, followed by the Impala a moment later. He closed half of the windows open on the laptop and started re-reading the single article he'd found that related to the vicious haunting his father and brother were hunting two towns over, in the next county.

John came into the cabin a minute later, and nodded to his son as he walked to the kitchen counter and poured himself a coffee from the pot Jim had made.

"Jim came over?" He sipped the hot coffee and walked to the table where Sam was working.

"Yeah, he dropped off the mail." Sam gestured to the small pile of letters beside him.

"How'd you do today? Find out anything about the family?" John sat down in the chair opposite Sam and picked up the letters, glancing at them.

"Just one article. And that was by a stringer for Mankato Free Press. He picked it up because he was camping at Walnut Lake."

"Anything useful?"

"Not really. More background than what we got from the sheriff's office files, but nothing to say that the family died violently. Unexplained disappearances are what they've run with."

They both looked up, John turning in his chair, as the front door of the cabin opened again and Dean walked in.

Sam's lips compressed tightly as he looked at his brother, who was covered in mud and slime from head to ankle, his socks a pale greenish colour and dripping water. Dean looked back at him, his eyes very bright against the black mud.

"Not one word," he growled, walking straight through the living room to the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom at the back of the house.

John grinned widely, calling after him, "Make sure you clean up after yourself in there, Dean!"

A grunt was the answer he got.

"What happened?" Sam looked at his father.

"Thought he'd take a short cut – through the marsh. Had to drag him out with the truck, he got bogged in a deeper section."

"In the car?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. John laughed.

"Do you think we'd ever hear the end of it if he'd done that to the Impala? No, just on his own two feet."

Sam looked down at the laptop, half-wishing he could have seen it, half-relieved that he hadn't. His brother didn't take well to having an audience witness his more spectacular errors in judgement.

He refocussed on the screen. "The thing is, I think we need the coroner's reports because I can't find any records of Milhone's grave in the county records that I can access, and the rest aren't online. I'd have to go in and get them in person."

John nodded. "That's alright, Dean can do that tomorrow. What about the house plans? Did anything come up from them?"

Sam felt his chest tighten. His father was completely rigid about keeping him under house-arrest, although he usually pretended it wasn't like that, as he'd done just then, sending Dean to do something that he could have done just as easily. It'd been four months since the ghoul attack, and he got the feeling that his father had been deadly serious about keeping him locked down for the foreseeable future. He remembered the letter and pushed his anger aside. _Biding your time_ was the expression, wasn't it?

"Yeah, the plans show a basement and a sub-basement. The sub-basement is half the size of the basement above – the note from the planners says that it had to be built because the soil at the higher level was too unstable to support the foundations, they went deeper and found a more stable clay compound."

"So the bodies might be down there," John mused, almost to himself. "It makes sense especially since the basement walls were all lined and sealed, there has to be an access point there somewhere."

"How many ghosts do you think there are there?" Sam smoothed his expression into curious interest, a technique he'd been getting better and better at.

"The family had eight children. There's also an unaccounted-for maiden aunt." John shrugged. "He could've murdered all of them for all we know right now."

"So there's a very vengeful father, and quite likely eight or nine pissed off family members?" Sam asked innocently, looking at his father's face.

John looked at him sharply, a glint of humour far back in the dark eyes. "Could be."

"And you and Dean are going to handle all of them by yourselves?"

The corner of John's mouth lifted slightly. "Are you volunteering your services?"

Sam shrugged. He'd wanted to see if his father would veto the idea straight away, or consider it.

"Seems like long odds."

"Yeah." John stood up, taking his empty cup to the sink. "We'll see. If we can find Milhone's grave tomorrow, then yeah, it'll probably take all three of us to put the whole lot of them to rest."

Sam nodded. It was a crack, of sorts, in his father's resolve, he supposed. He was going crazy sitting in the cabin all day, every day, and until he knew for sure about the scholarship he couldn't make any further plans. He felt the light-headed buzz trickling through him again as he recalled the words of the Stanford letter – _we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into our pre-law course, commencing August 10th__2001. Please ensure that you arrive on campus no later than August 5th__if you require accommodation_.

He'd done it. He was going and even if the scholarship didn't eventuate, he'd still go and find a way to pay the first year's fees, get a part-time job and support himself. He'd been accepted.

* * *

_**June 28, 2001**_

Dean leaned back on the couch, his feet on the low table in front of him, an icy beer in one hand, thinking that this was about as good as it got.

By some miracle of alchemy, his father and brother were talking naturally again, without the barbs and underhand stabs that had characterised their conversations for the past couple of years. And Sam was hunting with them again, cheerfully doing what he was told, holding his end up. It didn't get any better. Miracle.

He closed his eyes, relaxing and stretching out his muscles after the ten-mile hike through the woods they'd been forced into, chasing a skinwalker almost clear across the damned county. There was a limit to how many cases they'd find around the southern end of Minnesota and he hoped that with the general easing of restrictions and changes in attitude, they'd be able to move on soon.

Sam walked into the cabin, the gear bag tucked under one arm as he closed the door behind him.

"Where's Dad?" Dean opened an eye and looked at his brother.

"Gone to town. He's getting pizza." He put the bag down next to the table and moved the laptop and files, spreading a couple of layers of newspaper over the surface then unzipping the bag and pulling out the shotguns. In moments, the living room was redolent with the sharp tang of solvent and the smoother, but no less pungent scent of gun oil. Dean turned his head to watch Sam unload and break the guns down.

"You trying to score more brownie points or something?"

Sam looked over at him, his hands moving through the process of cleaning the barrel without needing his eyes to help. "Just thought I'd get everything done before we eat."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted. "C'mon, Sam you can tell me. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you haven't bitched or moaned or sulked once in the last five weeks, you're doing what you're told and getting on with the jobs you haven't been told to do – what gives?"

"I'm tired of fighting and tired of arguing," Sam allowed with a shrug. "I was going stir crazy sitting here day after day, and there was no way Dad was going to let me out unless something changed … so I did."

Dean sat up, looking at his brother. "Good."

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "Thanks. Glad to see you were supporting me."

His brother grinned and shrugged. "Come on, Sam. We're a team, and it wasn't working the old way."

"No. It sure wasn't," Sam said quietly. Not for him, he added silently.

"You wanna beer?"

"Sure." He looked down at the gun, lifting the barrel and checking it against the light. Dean got up and went to the fridge, getting another beer out and passing it to him.

"We might be able to get out of Blue Earth now you're off lockdown." He returned to the couch, putting his feet back on the table and drinking his beer.

Sam looked up at that uncertainly. "Thought Dad wanted to stay here until fall?"

Dean shrugged, getting up and turning on the ancient television. "Well, that was the original idea, but things have changed."

* * *

Sam lay on his bed in the darkness, arms behind his head, thinking furiously. He hadn't realised that Dad might well move them to somewhere else now that he was back in his good books. He'd just wanted to make it seem like everything was good again, partly to convince his father that he didn't need to stay in the damned cabin all the time, but partly too as a gesture to his brother. He hadn't seen Dean this happy and relaxed for a while, and the knowledge that it would be over as soon as he left had given him a giant, economy-sized guilt trip.

Dean had raised the possibility of moving on as soon as Dad had gotten back to the cabin, and as they'd devoured the two pizzas, their father hadn't actually vetoed the suggestion. He hadn't said yes either.

He couldn't leave here until he'd gotten confirmation or denial of the scholarship application. Which would be another couple of weeks at the very earliest. If they started moving again, it could be months before he could get back to Blue Earth and he wouldn't have a forwarding address that Jim could send it on to. His fingers shot through his hair in frustration. Talk about sabotaging yourself, he thought with a mental groan.

He could go back to insubordination and baiting his father. But it would either look like an act or make the last five weeks look like an act – either way it would arouse his father's always ready suspicions and it could precipitate the move he was trying to avoid.

_Goddamn his brother and his restlessness._

There was nothing he could do except wait and see what his father decided, he realised. He could take off early if need be, disappear then come back to Jim's in a couple of weeks – worst case scenario – but he'd just have to hope that Dad would stick to his original plan of staying till fall.

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep but resigned to the probability that it wouldn't come to him anytime soon.

* * *

_**June 30, 2001**_

"Well, there's not much you can do about cracked ribs except try and keep 'em as still as you can and let 'em heal." The doctor pushed his wire-frame glasses up his nose and peered at Dean.

Sam sat in a chair against the wall, an expression of concern on his face, while he turned cartwheels in his mind. Three weeks, no hunting. It was a miracle.

The salt and burn should have been a cakewalk. He'd been digging, Dean and Dad had been watching, one on either side of the grave. He'd just hit the box when the ghost had come out of nowhere, grabbing his brother and throwing him into the air, across the boneyard and onto the corner of a raised stone tomb. He'd ripped open the box in a new record time and Dad had hauled him out of the grave, both of them throwing salt and gasoline over the remains and lighting it.

Dean had hit awkwardly, unable to either ride the impact or twist away from it since he hadn't been able to see what he was landing on. When they'd reached him, he'd been trying to get to his feet, holding his chest and wheezing like an asthmatic.

He stood now, as his brother slid off the edge of the bed, stiff white adhesive tape wrapped around his ribcage. His movements were uncoordinated as Dad tried to help him get his shirt back on, lifting his arm higher than a couple of inches was clearly agonising. They managed it slowly, his father circling around Dean so that he wouldn't have to move any more than necessary.

"Guess we'll stick around here a bit longer?" he said to his father, who nodded.

Dean scowled at the floor, and walked slowly to the hallway, his breathing light and shallow as he tried not to move his ribs. Sam walked beside him, trying to hang on to some concern, pushing the buoyant feeling of being saved by the bell – or in this case, an angry ghost – down for the moment.

* * *

_**July 12, 2001**_

"I'm going over to Jim's, get the mail." Sam walked to the front door, looking back over his shoulder at his father, sitting at the table.

"Yeah, okay. Can you ask Jim to come by later on? Something I need to talk to him about."

"Sure." He walked out, and closed the door gently behind him. It was a couple of miles across country to Jim's house, tucked behind the white wooden frame church on this side of the town, and he started walking briskly.

He'd called Jim early this morning. There was a letter there for him. It was all he could do not start running now, but he made himself walk, made himself think through how he was going to deal with the next thing – actually leaving.

If he got the scholarship, he would leave Blue Earth in a week's time, he thought. Jim would give him a lift to Mankato. He could get a train or bus to California. He'd be there with a couple of weeks to play around with, find a job, sort out his accommodation. He needed all his documents – and Dad kept those, in the file in the truck. He'd have to get them out.

He walked on, long stride covering the distance fast, following the deer trail through the woods and skirting the cropped fields along the headlands, his attention fully engaged in the planning of his escape.

He got to the church in slightly under half an hour, walking around the back to the small house that served the parish priest.

Jim was waiting on the porch, the letter in his hand. Sam bounded up the steps and took it, looking down at it for a long moment. He glanced up at Jim's face, seeing encouragement in his eyes, and ripped the envelope open, unfolding the letter and scanning it fast.

Jim watched Sam reading the letter, saw the slump of his shoulders, the deep outrush of air from his lungs, and at first, thought he'd missed out. Then Sam lifted his head and the grin was ear to ear, and he held out his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Is it enough?" He glanced down at the letter curiously.

Sam nodded. "Full ride. I'll have to pay for my own food, my personal expenses, but tuition and accommodation are covered for the four years."

"Congratulations, Sam, I know how hard you worked for this. You deserve it."

"Thanks Jim." He sank down onto the top step of the porch, rubbing the heel of his hand slowly against his forehead. This was it. It was all a go from here. Only one more insurmountable obstacle ahead.

_Telling his father._

He accepted the beer that Jim put into his hand, and leaned against the porch railing post, looking over at the man.

"Any ideas on how I break it to Dad?"

Jim grimaced slightly. "No matter how you do it, it's going to be a shock for him. I don't think he's really let himself think about you boys growing up, growing away from him."

Sam nodded. "He doesn't think much of college anyway, I'm not sure I can use the whole you-should-be-proud-of-me speech either."

Jim's gaze sharpened on him. "Don't kid yourself Sam, John's incredibly proud of you, and if things were any other way, he'd be fit to bursting to hear you got a full scholarship to one of the country's most prestigious schools."

"But things aren't any other way, are they, Jim?"

"No." Jim sighed. "They're not."

Sam heard the sigh and swallowed his beer. He'd deal with it as well as he could. Pick a day, a time, when Dad was more relaxed, more able to listen. It'd work out, he thought.

"Oh yeah, speaking of Dad, he asked if you could come by the cabin later on. He needs to talk to you about something."

Jim nodded without asking for more information, which made Sam wonder exactly what the two of them knew that hadn't been shared with him and Dean. Or maybe Dean knew as well and it was only him that was being kept in the dark. He shoved the thought away irritably. That was old thinking, when he didn't have any other options. Now he was free. He didn't need to know about Dad's little secrets. He didn't care about them. He was out.

He finished his beer and stood up, lobbing the empty bottle into the trash can at the end of the porch.

"Thanks, Jim. I'll see you before I go – actually, I was going to ask if I could hit you up for a ride to Mankato?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Any day but Sunday."

Sam laughed and walked down the steps, heading back the way he came, his letter tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket where it rested next to Stanford's acceptance letter, the rest of Dad's mail in the outside pocket on the other side where he couldn't possibly confuse them.

* * *

_**July 14, 2001**_

Dean drew in a deep breath slowly, feeling for pain as his ribcage expanded out and up with his lungs. He was totally fine until those last few cubic inches then there was a sharp stab. He released the breath and closed his eyes in frustration. It'd been three weeks, the bones should have healed up by now.

He got up from the side of the bed and walked across the room, opening his bedroom door and going down the hall to the living room. He was beginning to understand how Sam had felt, all those months stuck in the damned cabin. He could use his arms a bit more now, but even driving caused twinges, it was goddamned _amazing_ how many things involved the chest, ribs and muscles surrounding them.

He wasn't used to feeling useless, and it chewed at him that he wasn't holding his end up, even though his father and brother had picked up the slack efficiently and without a single comment. Sam was doing both his own chores and Dean's and that rankled more than he was willing to admit.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he turned the television on, easing himself down onto the couch carefully. The only channel that came through with the least amount of snow was devoted to soap operas in the daytime hours, and after five minutes of watching a nurse and doctor emoting meaningfully at each other, he got up again and turned it off.

He sat down at the table, stiffly upright, trying to will his ribs to heal faster. A moment later, he heard the back door close, turning cautiously in the chair, relieved to see Sam coming down the hallway.

"Oh. Hey. I thought you were sleeping?" Sam glanced at the closed laptop on the table next to his brother's arm and back to Dean's face.

"Yeah, no. I can't sleep in the day, gets too hot under the tape."

"Yeah, right. How're the ribs feeling today?" Sam sat down, his fingers unconsciously running along the edge of the computer. He'd thought he'd have an hour to himself, enough time to book the rail ticket and sort out a place to stay when he got Palo Alto, before the school opened on the fifth.

"Horrible. Same as they did yesterday." Dean swallowed another mouthful of beer, using the action to let his gaze drop to his brother's hand, nervously running along the side of the laptop.

"Well, you know what the doc said, takes a while with ribs." Sam stood up abruptly and walked to the kitchen, getting a glass and filling it with water from the tap.

"You know, Dad's probably got some sleeping pills to help with that." He looked back at Dean over his shoulder.

"Mmm, I'm trying to avoid those. The hangover ain't worth the sleep." His eyes narrowed very slightly as he watched Sam move around. He couldn't imagine a reason for it, but he knew his brother better than he knew himself, and Sam was nervous.

"What have you been doing?"

"Not much." Sam leaned against the end of the counter, his arms folded to keep himself from fiddling with something. "Dad went up to Mankato, said he'd be back by dark."

"Huh." Dean leaned on his elbow on the table and hurriedly sat straight again. Even that gave him a sharp twinge. "He say what he was doing up there?"

Sam gave him a dry look. "Does he ever?"

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Uh, how are we doing for supplies? I haven't looked lately."

Sam looked through the cupboards. "Pretty low actually. Do you want me to do a run?"

"If you have time." He looked over at the table beside the door. "Keys are there. Get some sodas as well, will you? And pie."

"Sure." Sam walked over to the table and picked up the keys. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, uh, better fill up the car. I'm not sure how much is in her right now."

"Okay." He opened the front door and turned back. "See you."

Dean nodded and watched the door close behind him. He waited until the car had started up, and he heard the tyres grinding over the gravel down the drive then got up slowly and walked down to his brother's room.

_Shitty thing to do_, he thought as he opened the door. _Spying on your kid brother_. He looked around the room, which was clean and tidy; everything neatly put away, books straight, bed made.

_Yeah but it's for his own good_, he told himself as he walked over to the chest of drawers, opening the top one and sliding his hand between the neatly folded piles of clothes. _If he's up to something, it'll be me standing between him and Dad, and I'd better know what I'm dealing with_.

The justification sounded good to him, and he worked his way slowly and carefully through the room, searching everywhere.

The air was close and still in the room and after half an hour he was sweating, itching under the tape and with no results whatsoever. He thought about getting another cold beer and giving up, and shook his head. There had to be something. Sam had wanted to use the laptop, which wasn't exactly unusual but he hadn't wanted to do it in front of his big brother. Now, why would that be? He didn't think the kid'd wanted to check out the porn sites.

His gaze travelled thoughtfully around the room again, and the jacket hanging on the back of the door finally caught his eye. Long shot, he thought, walking over to it. But even long shots paid off occasionally.

He went through the pockets and was rewarded by the rustle of paper in the inside breast pocket. His fingers found the sheets of paper and pulled them out. Unfolding them, Dean read the first and then the other, the words dropping like bombs into his mind, exploding with implications that he didn't want to look at, didn't want to face.

His little brother had gotten himself accepted to a college in California. A fancy college in California. And with a full scholarship. Which meant that he didn't need money from his family to go there. He could just up and go at anytime. Suddenly, the desire to use the laptop without an audience made sense. The nervousness made sense. Hell, even the ceasefire with Dad and the boy scout attitude made sense now.

He tucked the letters under his shirt and walked out of the room. He needed to think about this for a while. Get it straight in his head. His heart was pounding, shaking the still-cracked ribs slightly as he walked and he realised the emotion he was feeling was fear.

Sam wanted to leave.

Was going to leave.

Them.

Him.

* * *

_**July 14, 2001. 6.15 p.m.**_

"I'm going to read for a while," Sam said, getting up from the armchair and walking past his brother.

"Sure." Dean kept his eyes on the television until he heard the door close down the hall. He got up slowly, and pulled the letters from his pocket, taking them to the table and setting them out side by side, where Dad wouldn't fail to miss them when he came through the door. He glanced at his watch. Which shouldn't be much longer.

He'd spent the afternoon thinking about it, wondering what to do, what he could do. His first impulse had been to talk to him about it, but he'd realised that Sam was already expecting resistance. The acceptance letter had arrived in May, the scholarship letter two days ago. There were only two reasons he could think of for Sam to hide them, to not mention them to him. He was expecting a fight, and he wanted to pick the time and place for it. Or maybe more likely, he was just going to slip out, no fight, no goodbye, no forwarding address.

Either way, he'd been forced into deciding that Dad would have to know about it. He wasn't sure that was a good idea. The two of them had been getting along great for a while now, but this … this was a powder keg. It could go either way. He just couldn't think of any other way to stop Sam from just taking off. The deliberate subterfuge of his brother's actions bothered him the most. They'd talked about everything, the two of them. There was no one, maybe not even Dad, that he loved more, trusted more. Why hadn't Sam at least mentioned it?

He stood beside the table, wondering again if he should hide the letters, go and talk to Sam, when he heard the truck pull in front of the house. He looked down at them, chewing on the corner of his lip. If Dad blew it … if Sam left anyway …

The front door opened and Dad walked in, his face strained and tired in the unforgiving glare of the overhead light. Dean looked from him down to the table, his hand reaching out for the letters, when he saw his father's gaze catch sight of them – as he'd known he would.

"What's that?" He walked forward and looked down at them, scanning the first, then the second. Dean watched the expressions flash across his father's face in seconds, his heart plummeting as he realised he'd made a mistake.

"SAM! Get out here now!"

Sam's bedroom door opened immediately, and he walked down the hall to the living room. He looked at his father, seeing the rage that had darkened his eyes, but missing the fear that was feeding the anger. He couldn't think what he'd done to elicit this response, then his eyes went to the bright white squares of paper on the table, the college logo prominent on the corners of each and he understood.

His gaze flashed up Dean's face, shock and incomprehension filling him, and his brother turned his head away, looking down at the floor. Sam stared at Dean for a long moment, then looked back at his father, feeling his own expression harden.

"You gonna explain this to me?"

"I think it's pretty much self-explanatory," Sam said quietly, the edge in his voice not quite contemptuous but not far off. "I applied to a college, a really good college, and I was accepted and they gave me a full scholarship."

"And you didn't think to tell me. Or ask about it? Or see if it fit in with our plans?"

"No." Sam's eyes narrowed. He was done with asking and done with the Winchester family plans. "No, I was just thinking about what I wanted."

"You're not going," his father's voice, usually deep and gravelly, was now as sharp as glass. "You hear me? Not going."

Sam looked away, anger fizzing in his veins at the peremptory command.

"I am going." He looked back to his father, meeting his eyes. "And there's absolutely nothing you can do that can stop me from going."

John sucked in a deep breath as he struggled to control his fear. Fear of the demon. Fear of what Sam might become. Fear of losing his child. Fear of losing everything he'd held onto for the past eighteen years. He'd known this day would come, he hadn't realised how terrifying the reality of it would be.

He tried to find a different approach. "You're gonna abandon your family, just like that?"

"My family?" Sam shook his head. "My drill sergeant, you mean." He walked to the table and snatched the letters up, refolding them and tucking them into his pocket. "This isn't a family, Dad. This is an army. An army of three. And I quit."

"Sam, you don't know –"

"You know what family is? Family would be _proud_ of me – I _aced_ those exams to get into Stanford, into pre-law – I fucking well aced them and any _family_ in this country would have been proud of me for doing it. Did you even read that scholarship letter? It's a full ride. They think I'm good enough to get everything paid for." He turned around and stepped close to John, aware for the first time that he was looking down at his father, and drawing himself up even more. "So don't talk to me about _family_ and what that means!"

Dean saw his father's jaw muscle twitch and he stepped between them, his heart racing as he realised that his father and brother were both seething with emotions that had been repressed for far too long. "Come on, Dad; don't make this worse than already is."

Sam snorted behind him. "You did this, don't try and take my side now."

Dean flinched at the comment, but kept his eyes on his father's face. No matter how big Sam got, his father could take him if he chose to, and that _would_ be the end.

"You made us what we are, Dad. He's your good little grunt, and I'm the freak here." Sam turned away, striding down to his room.

"Dad – stop it, okay?" Dean put his hand against his father's chest, and John looked at him, his eyes refocussing and his breathing steadying. His son felt the change and stepped back, turning to look over his shoulder as Sam came back down the hall, his duffle packed full, over his shoulder.

"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean tried to straighten up, his face paling a little as the cracked rib sent a stabbing pain through him.

John had moved back, blocking the door.

"I'm leaving, Dean – I'd've thought that'd be obvious, even to you." Sam saw the barb hit his brother squarely and turned to his father.

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this. You made it plain that you don't trust me, that you can't count on me. So I'm doing what you expected me to and now you're surprised?"

"Sam, we need to stay together –"

"Right. Stay together, like leaving me here in the cabin for four months on lockdown. Sure, yeah, I can see how that worked as a bonding tool."

"Sam, you don't know what's out –"

"Yeah, I do, Dad, that's why I'm getting out. I don't want what you want, I don't want to be a hunter and die before I hit thirty. I want a life."

"Sam–" Dean looked at his father and stepped closer.

"Shut up." Sam didn't even look at his brother as Dean walked around between them again.

"I trusted you. You hung me out to dry, man." The venom in his tone was tempered by his pain, but the anger was plain. He stepped forward and Dean stepped back. "Get out of my way."

"C'mon, not like this." Dean shook his head, looking into Sam's eyes, ignoring the coldness he saw there, needing to get through, to apologise, to somehow make this right.

"Dean, get out of my way." Sam looked past his brother to his father.

John's eyes narrowed as he realised that Sam would fight his way out if he thought he had to.

"No. Don't leave like this." Dean stood his ground as Sam took another step. "I'm sorry about the letters, Sam; I fucked up, okay? I didn't want you to go."

Sam stopped, his gaze resting on his brother's face for a moment then moving it past to stare over Dean's shoulder at his father. "Major mistake, bro. I was _always_ going to go."

Behind Dean, John took a step toward them. "Drop the attitude, Sammy, we're trying to protect you, just listen to me–"

"Protect me?" Sam stared at him disbelievingly. "I need protection from you! I don't want another punctured lung! I don't want to watch my brother lying near death in another hospital bed. I don't want to be here when something finally gets you. You aren't protecting me, you're putting me – us – in the line of fire!"

"You don't know what's waiting …" John cut himself off with a grimace, looking away as the words dried up in his throat. What the hell could he say? _Stop, Sam, you're going to turn into a monster? Something your brother and I might have to kill?_ He bowed his head, eyes screwing shut at the mental image.

Dean looked at his father's face, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He looked back at his brother, seeing Sam's expression twist into fury as they both recognised that their father wasn't going to say anything else.

"You don't tell us anything!" Sam shouted suddenly. "You never have. And I finally figured out that you never will! You want to control us, and that's not gonna happen, not to me!"

John accepted the accusation, his face tight. The cage was of his own making, the truth that he couldn't tell either son. If Sam got out, disappeared, one of thousands of kids in a college town, would he be safer?

"Sam, you leave now, like this … don't you ever think of coming back," John said, standing behind Dean and staring at his youngest son's face.

Dean's face screwed up as he heard the words. "Goddammit, that's not helping."

"I won't be coming back, don't worry, Dad."

Sam looked at his brother finally, knowing, in the way that siblings do, what would hurt him the most.

"I don't have a family anymore."

He pushed past Dean, felt his brother's hand clamp around his arm as they came even.

Without thinking he broke the hold as he'd been taught, his elbow swinging wide and driving into Dean's ribs. He stopped for a moment at the gasp of pain that came from his brother, catching a glimpse of green eyes vivid in the too-white face, then he turned away, walking past his father to the door, and yanking it open.

He glanced back as he walked through, seeing Dean half-kneeling, his father beside him and shook his head slightly, pulling the door shut behind him with a bang. Two mile walk to Jim's in the dark wasn't a problem. He'd be in Mankato by midday, if Jim was free. And on the train to California by nightfall.

* * *

"God, help me up." Dean tried to take a deeper breath, and his fingers clenched into fists as pain knifed through him.

John shifted his grip, lifting him from under the elbows until he was standing. He watched as Dean stumbled to the door, pulling it open and lurching outside, calling for his brother. There was no answering call, and John turned away from the door, his anger at Sam's black and white view of the world compounded by seeing Dean's desperation. He'd lost one son, he thought bleakly, he could easily lose the other.

Outside, Dean managed to get down the porch stairs and he looked up and down the road. Sam would have gone to Jim's, he thought. He looked at the woods on the other side of the road, the blackness under them. There was no way he could make through there. _And for what?_ another thought came.

The image of Sam's face when he'd seen the letters, when he'd looked at him, his recognition of what had happened dawning in his face, filled his mind's eye and Dean closed his eyes and tried to shut it out, his little brother's expression in that moment, the hurt and the shattered trust and the incomprehension he'd seen.

"SAM!"

The night's silence answered him.

* * *

_**July 15, 2001.**_

John looked at Jim, fury in his eyes. "You couldn't have told me? You couldn't have given me a head's up on this?"

"So that you could drag him off somewhere _more_ remote, and deny him the chance to have what he wants, John? To have what he needs?" Jim glared back at him.

"He's my son, I decide what he needs, not you!"

"I didn't make the choice for him, John. He made the choice. And he's a man. He's not a kid anymore."

"Goddamn it, Jim, you know why I wanted to keep him close, you know why it isn't safe for him out there – why would you do this?" John's anguish was in his voice and Jim closed his eyes against it.

"Because you can't protect them by hiding them away, as if this is all a fairy-tale, John!" He stared at his friend, shaking his head. "Sam deserves a life, even more so if what happened to the others …"

John flinched from the words. "You think he's going to be thankful for a couple of years of being normal when his powers come through, Jim? That he'll be safe?"

"It doesn't matter. He needed something other than a hunting life. So that he could make the decisions for himself. You know that, I know you do. Deep in your heart, in your soul, you know he has to make the decisions for himself."

John slumped against the railing. "Christ, this all so fucked up."

"_Oh my god, why hast thou forsaken me?"_

John turned his head and looked at Jim. "Yeah, exactly."

"Because you didn't ask for help, maybe?"

"Don't start that with me, Jim. Not now." He rubbed his hand over his face wearily. "Can you let everyone know – anyone working a job in California, check in on him? Discreetly? And report back?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that."

John turned and started down the steps. Jim watched him go, seeing the defeat in him. "John, how's Dean?"

He stopped and then turned slowly. "Pretty much as you'd expect. There's a case, over in Ohio. We'll leave tomorrow. Maybe it'll help. Take his mind off this."

"I hope so too."

* * *

_**I-74 E. July 16, 2001.**_

John glanced in the rear-view mirror, seeing the black Impala four car lengths behind him. He'd wracked his brain for a way to just take the one car across, so that he could keep an eye on his eldest, but there'd been no way it was feasible. And he knew that, at least, having to drive would help Dean deal, maybe better than riding shotgun, too much time and too many miles to think without anything else to take his attention.

After shouting into the night a couple of times, he'd hobbled back inside and gone straight to his bedroom, his face chalk-white and his eyes glittering. John had closed the door, done the defences, not thinking about Sam walking through the darkness, not thinking, but hoping Sam would go to Jim's. It had been then that he'd realised the collusion of his friend, and fury had risen again along with its bunk-mate, fear, and he'd been hard-pressed to restrain himself from jumping in the truck and barrelling straight over there. It wouldn't have helped, he realised now. Jim was right about that. Sam was a man now, he had to make his own decisions.

Dean hadn't spoken to him at all yesterday, had barely come out of the bedroom. He wasn't sure what was going through his mind, although Sam's reaction to the letters was obviously a big thing. This morning he'd emerged, his eyes dry but his face still chalky looking, and he'd agreed on going out to Ohio, getting back to work.

He still wasn't sure if and how his son was dealing with the loss of his brother. But Dean was functioning, and he supposed that he'd have to accept that was the best he was going to get for a while.

* * *

Dean stared out through the windshield at the road, the car's speed precisely on the limit, never varying his distance from the black truck that rolled on ahead of him. He was driving on autopilot, his eyes and hands and feet controlling the car perfectly, while his thoughts churned and roiled and twisted around in his head.

Sam was gone. Really gone. To a real life where he wanted to forget he had a father and a brother. It hurt. It fucking well _hurt_ as if someone had tipped acid over him and it was eating right through his skin and down to his bones. What hurt more was the undeniable fact that if he hadn't taken the letters, Sam might have found a time and a way to leave without every door slamming behind him, without having to give up his family, without having to face his brother's betrayal.

He felt his chest tighten and took a deep breath, the pain of his ribs negligible in comparison to the pain in his heart. He'd woken this morning, and had gotten out of bed before it had come back to him, the memories. For a few minutes he'd been unaware of them, had been thinking that he and Sam could do something today, maybe go down to the marsh and fish or hunt or something. And then they'd come back and he'd sat on the edge of the bed, hearing Sam say it. Hearing him _mean_ it.

_I don't have a family anymore_.

Sam would get over it, he thought. In time. He hoped he would. In the meantime, it was just him and Dad and that wasn't so bad. That was kind of like it'd been before. It wasn't like Sam had died, or anything that permanent. He was just ... not around … for awhile, that's all. He could deal with that. And eventually Sam would get over it, and he'd see him again. And things would … never be the same.

He shook off the last thought, blinking as the road blurred a bit. He tried to remember what he'd been thinking when he'd set the letters out on the table. Why he'd thought it was a good idea to involve their father. Nothing came to him. Except the thought that this was his fault. He'd broken Sam's trust in him, and that … that was probably not going to be fixed.

Sam had said he was going anyway. No matter what.

His thoughts churned and roiled and twisted around, going in circles, unclear and confused. Two things were etched into his mind.

Sam was gone.

And that was on him.

* * *

_Where do I take this pain of mine  
I run but it stays right by my side  
So tear me open, pour me out  
The things inside that scream and shout  
And the pain still hates me, so hold me until it sleeps_


	25. Chapter 25 Hear the Darkness Call

**Chapter 25 Hear the Darkness Call**

* * *

_**May, 2002. Richmond, Indiana.**_

John leaned back against the chair, rubbing both hands over his face as he tried to make sense of the mish-mash of information they'd collected so far.

Five victims. One highway. No murders. No suicides. No missing persons in the entire area.

It was … aggravating, he thought tiredly. He glanced around at Dean, who was sitting on the couch, staring into space. He was worried about his son. Dean'd dropped some weight since they'd left Ohio; something had happened there that he didn't want to talk about. On top of Sam's … defection, whatever it was, was bringing him down in a big way.

"Dean." He watched his son's eyes regain their focus as the young man turned to look at his father.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

The scowl was instant and reassuringly familiar. "I'm fine, Dad. Quit asking me that."

"Good." He looked down at the files in front of him. "We're gonna have to dig deeper on this."

Dean's brows remained together for a moment, then he nodded. "Yeah. There's nothing local that's connected to that road."

"See if you can find out more about the road itself, maybe a construction worker died there? Or … something." John's mouth twisted a little as he heard himself reaching. "There has to be something about the location."

"I can check through the planning department. If anything happened, it should have been noted."

"Yep, and we'll need –" he stopped as his phone rang, pulling it out and answering.

"Yeah?" The voice on the other end was not one he'd ever expected to hear again.

He turned away, walking slowly to the other side of the room.

"What? Okay, calm down, I –" he paused, listening. "All right."

He looked at his watch. Seven fifteen. "Yeah, look I can make it tomorrow morning. I'm in Indiana."

"Okay. Yeah, I'll see you then."

He closed the phone and stared at the wall in front of him. _Christ_. He became aware of his son's scrutiny, feeling the green eyes boring into him from behind.

"I have to go." He got up, shuffling the papers back into their files and stacking them into a pile to one side of the table.

"What?" Dean asked, his expression changing from surprise to concern in an instant. "What's wrong?"

John turned around at the change in Dean's tone, seeing the poorly-concealed worry on his son's face. "Nothing. No, nothing's wrong," he said evasively, too aware that it was too close to a lie. "I just have to help out a friend."

The young man's brows drew together. "Now?"

"Yeah, look it's nothing you have to worry about, just an old friend's called in a favour. " He picked up his canvas duffle and shoved the few clothes that were out into it. "I'll be gone a couple of days."

"A couple of days? Kind of in the middle of something here," Dean said, getting to his feet as he watched his father move erratically around the room. "Dad, what's going on?"

"Dean, it's fine. It's just something I have to do, that's all." John stopped and looked at him, recognising the uneasiness. The last few months his son had been – not clingy, that wasn't a word that could ever describe him – but more concerned, maybe, about them sticking together, not walking into danger alone. "Are you going to be okay here, get that research done?"

The younger man immediately bristled at the suggestion that he couldn't do his job, the worry disappearing from his eyes. "Yeah, of course."

"Okay. I'll be back in a couple of days. Uh, I'd like to take the Impala, it's faster and better on fuel – that okay with you?

If he'd reached out and slapped his son in the face he wouldn't have gotten a more surprised look.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Keys are …," Dean looked around and saw them on the nightstand beside his bed. John followed his gaze and nodded, crossing to them and picking them up, putting down the set for the truck in their place.

"Thanks. I'll look after her. If you find out anything, leave a message for me. Do not go in on your own, you got that?"

"Sure. Yeah."

John looked around the room briefly, then nodded and opened the door to the room. He walked through and closed it behind him, automatically heading for the truck, then having to veer past it to reach the Impala.

* * *

It wasn't until he'd cleared the town limits and hit the I-74 that he allowed himself to think about the call, the woman who'd made it, and what she'd said.

_Kate_. She'd asked if he remembered her. He shook his head a little at the memory of that question. As if he could have forgotten. She'd sounded harried, and he got the picture quickly that the call hadn't been her idea.

Her son had wanted her to make the call. _His_son.

He drew in a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. His _son_. He couldn't get his head around it. Twelve years old, this year. Birthday in September. Twelve goddamned years and he'd never known. Hadn't even thought about it.

He couldn't ask her about that over the phone. Not with Dean sitting there with his radar on and his hearing turned up to maximum sensitivity. He remembered what he'd told her, but hell, having a child, that changed everything, how could she have not realised that?

The Impala's speed started to creep up and he glanced down at the speedometer after he'd overtaken the third car, letting his foot ease off. He realised he was nervous. Of both of them. Nervous about seeing her again, having the conversation they would have to have. Nervous of meeting his son, who thought god knew what of him. He didn't even know what she'd told the boy about him.

There was, he knew, a small part of him that was happy that Kate had never called, never contacted him. There was at least one boy with Winchester genes who'd grown up normally, who hadn't been hunted in the dark, hadn't been robbed of his childhood or his mother. But that part really was a minority. The majority was devastated that he'd had no part in his upbringing, had taken no responsibility for his welfare or keep, or for the well-being of the woman who'd borne him. He was old-fashioned that way. Semper Fi.

So, what now? He stared through the windshield at the road ribboning ahead of him, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He was no more in a position to be with Kate and their son now than he'd been when he'd met her. Less so, as the demon kept spreading his circle of spies, breaking through more often. He couldn't bring Kate and the boy into his life, exposing them needlessly to danger, dragging the boy up as his older sons had been dragged up, risking Kate to the same malevolent force that'd taken Mary.

Sam's words still reverberated through in his mind when he lay in bed unable to sleep, and through his nightmares when exhaustion forced him into sleep. Dean, for some reason, was different. He loved hunting, love the challenge and the danger of it. Had the loyalty and courage and razor-sharp sense of survival every good Marine needed. Even so, he knew that Dean needed more than hunting. He might not have recognised it yet, but he would, John was sure of it. In the depths of his eldest son, was a man who wanted – who _needed_, he amended to himself – love and a family, and sooner or later that man would emerge.

Sam had exercised his choice to go, to look for something he considered better, and John couldn't blame him. Nor could he allow that to happen again. Adam Milligan would grow up without a father most of the time, but also without the fear of the dark and the things it contained, without needing to know how to hunt monsters or ghosts or demons. He would not risk another son to the demon's malicious plans. He couldn't.

And Kate … he would have to tell Kate the truth. Some of it, at any rate. Enough of it to convince her that she was safer if he wasn't around most of the time.

* * *

_**Windom, Minnesota.**_

He pulled up in front of the house at seven-thirty the next morning, overwhelmingly aware that he needed sleep, a shower and shave, and something more substantial than a chocolate bar before he knocked on their door. Exhaling resignedly as he got out of the car, he knew it wasn't going to happen. He'd promised he'd be here as fast as he could, and he wasn't going to take another hour to make himself presentable – they would both have to take him as he came.

He left the duffle in the backseat and walked up to the porch steps. The front door opened before he'd made it half-way and a tall, skinny boy hovered at the top of the stairs, big blue eyes staring down at him, fringed by long dark lashes, a shock of dark hair which hadn't yet seen a brush, all long, gangling limbs and tightly controlled excitement. John paused mid-step and looked at him, reminded of Sam at the same age, of Dean a couple of years younger.

"Hey." He smiled and continued up the steps.

"Hey." Adam's voice faded away to a whisper. He cleared his throat loudly and gestured to the door. "Uh, come in, Mom's just making breakfast."

John nodded and walked into the house, his throat closing up and his chest tightening. How was he supposed to get through this?

Adam strode away ahead of him, down the narrow hall beside the staircase, disappearing into the kitchen at the end. He flung himself carelessly into a chair at the table in the centre as John walked in and stopped in the doorway, looking at the woman at the stove, her back to him but the shape of her chiming with familiarity in his memories.

She turning a little, looking over her shoulder at him, her face smooth and without expression and waved the spatula in her hand in a tacit invitation at the table.

"Adam, get John a cup of coffee. He's been driving all night; he looks like he could use one." Her gaze rested on him for a moment, and he looked back at her with what he thought was an equal greed, to see the changes, the things that were still the same. "I'll be finished in a minute."

John walked to the table and sat down, watching her, as Adam poured him a cup of black coffee. The years gone by hadn't changed her much, he thought. She still had that air of competency, masking a woman of surprising passions. She was fit, her hair a little longer, caught up in a ponytail and the multiple shades of blonde he remembered. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the stiffness of her back. She was as nervous about him being here as he was, he realised uncomfortably. He didn't know if that was going to make things easier or harder.

He took the cup that Adam gave him, sipping the coffee gratefully; acutely aware that the boy hadn't taken his eyes off him since he'd arrived. No matter what he wanted to say to Kate, he would have to talk to Adam first.

Kate glanced at him again, serving bacon and eggs and biscuits onto plates and bringing them to the table. "There's a big park, down near the river. Thought you might take Adam down there, throw a ball around or whatever it is you guys do?"

He looked up at her, trying to read her expression, and nodded. "Sounds good."

* * *

John pulled the car into the empty car park, choosing a spot near the river. He hadn't been able to think of anything to say to Adam on the way and the boy had been looking out of the window, looking around the car and probably dumbstruck himself.

"Is this, uh, where you hang out, Adam?" He killed the engine.

"Yeah, I like to, uh, walk along the river. There's always something to see." Adam looked down at his hands, sliding a hesitant look sideways after a second.

"Let's do that, then." John looked at him, and opened his door. Adam scrambled out the other side and conscientiously locked the car door, before coming around the front of the car to walk beside him.

"Mom said … that you, uh, work on contracts and stuff, that's why you don't live in one place?"

John looked down at him. "Yeah, kind of. I have a dangerous job, Adam. I try not to let it interfere with other people."

"Oh." Adam thought about that for a moment. "Mom said she never told you about me."

"No. She didn't." John sighed and looked across the river. "Has she been alright? I mean, the two of you, you doing alright?"

Adam nodded. "She's working shifts at the hospital. I go to Windom Area. It's not far. And I'm on the basketball team."

"That's not surprising, looks like you're going to be tall." He smiled.

"Yeah, Mom says that too. Can't be from her side of the family, they're all short."

"Did your mom tell you I won't be able to stay, Adam?" John shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah." He looked up at the man walking beside him. "She said that you might be able to visit us now, you know, from time to time."

"Yeah, I'll do that, Adam. I will do that."

Adam slowed down and looked back the way they came. "It's just that … my whole life, I felt like I had no dad … you know? I, uh …" He stopped, looking down at the ground. "I know you're real busy."

John stood looking at him, then reached out tentatively and let his hand rest on his son's head. "I'm sorry about that, Adam. I really am. I can't promise you a proper father – someone who's there all the time – but if you need me for anything, you just have to call, okay? I'll come."

Adam nodded, a shy smile curving his mouth. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

John picked up the plates and carried to them to the sink, stacking them to one side tidily. From the living room he heard Kate's voice, but he couldn't make out what she was saying to Adam.

She came back into the kitchen a few minutes, a smile quickly hidden as she noticed the cleared and clean table, John making a fresh pot of coffee at the stove.

"I told him you couldn't stay," she said without preamble, walking to stand near him, leaning back against the counter. "I thought it was better to be honest."

He nodded. "It is. I told him the same thing. I said that if he needed me, he could call. I'd come."

She tilted her head, looking at him consideringly. "And will you? Come?"

"Yeah. I will." He turned to her, his face sombre. "I would've come if you'd needed me, and called."

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Don't think I didn't think about it, John. I did."

"Why didn't you call?" He glanced in the direction of the living room, then looked back at her. "When you knew?"

"You told me you couldn't stay," Kate said simply. "It didn't sound ambiguous and I thought that forcing a child onto you wouldn't change things. But it would make you feel guilty, and unhappy, and I didn't want you to feel that way, in connection with us."

He looked at the floor. It would've been a lot more complicated than that. "I could have helped in a lot of ways, even if I wasn't here, Kate."

Looking up, he saw her smile, a little sadly. "That kind of help I didn't really need. It's been okay. We've been fine."

"You've been alone." It wasn't really a question, but she sensed that he wanted to know.

"Yeah." She lowered her gaze, then shrugged. "There wasn't anyone I thought was anything special. What about you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"I didn't tell Adam about your boys, John. I thought it would complicate the situation."

"Probably a good idea," he said quietly. She was no more than a foot from him, and he could smell her scent, that light scent that he remembered waking to in the hospital. It made him realise that he probably should get going, find a motel, get some rest.

"I should go, Kate. I need to find a play to stay, get some sleep."

"You don't have to." She straightened up, shaking her head but not looking at him. "There's a spare bedroom upstairs. It would mean a lot to Adam if you were here."

He thought about it. It would save money and time. He'd be able to be a part of their life, if only for a day or two. He had to get back to Dean day after tomorrow, at the latest.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." He gestured to the window. "Bag's in the car. I'll be right back."

She nodded and turned to the sink, rinsing off the plates and running hot water to do the dishes.

When he returned, Adam took him up to the small third bedroom, finding him a towel and showing him the bathroom. He hid a smile at the boy's enthusiasm, glad that he'd be able to spend as much time with him as he could.

"Adam, time for bed." Kate looked pointedly at the clock. "Say goodnight to your dad."

She felt a faint shiver pass through as the so-normal words came out of her mouth for the very first time. Looking at John, she saw his eyes had widened slightly as well. Adam didn't seem notice either of their reactions. He said goodnight, the smile still shy and kissed his mother, and ran full pelt up the stairs, thundering along the upstairs hall to his room.

Kate looked discreetly at John from under her lashes. He looked different, his hair washed and trimmed and brushed back, beard trimmed … less like the rough hunter she remembered clearly from the ER twelve years ago, and more like the man who'd stayed with her for the days following.

John looked around the living room. A lot of her things he remembered from the apartment. The books, the music collection. There were more photographs here, pictures of Adam from babyhood to this year's school photo, proudly displayed on the shelves around the room.

Kate saw his gaze lingering on the photos. "Would you like a couple?"

He turned back to her, his face thoughtful. "Maybe one. I don't have any place to keep a lot of mementos."

She smiled a little awkwardly, not knowing what to make of that, or if she should respond to it, or let it go. This aspect of him, it was hard to talk about. Everything else had been easy. She felt as if she knew a bit of him, but it wasn't the important bit, it wasn't the core.

She got up and went to the shelves, pulling out an album. In the front were several wallet sized loose photographs, copies of the larger ones that filled the frames around the room.

Selecting one, she closed the album and returned it to the shelf, and crossed back to John, holding out the photo to him. He took it and looked down at the picture of Adam, in a basketball uniform, grinning unselfconsciously into the camera. The grin was wide and infectious, and John's mouth quirked in response.

"It's a good one. Thanks."

"Do you think you'll be able to visit sometimes? Maybe birthdays or something like that?" she asked, turning away from him and moving to an armchair. There was a field of tension between them, areas she thought she couldn't ask about, areas she thought he wouldn't go into.

"As often as I can, yeah. It won't be that often. Things are … heating up … with work. Taking up more time, mostly. But I'll do my best."

"That's all anyone can do." She curled deeper into the armchair, resting her chin on her elbow as she looked at him. "How are your boys? They must be all grown up now?"

"Yeah," John told her, moving to the end of the sofa closest to her and sitting down. The innocuous question reminded him that he still had to tell her something of how it was, let her know that none of this was his choice. Yet, it was all his choice, he thought, a little wearily. Everything he'd done and said and felt had been a choice. "The, uh, oldest is working with me. The other one went to college last year."

"I didn't want to make you feel responsible, John," she said suddenly.

He laughed softly, understanding what she meant but amused by the futility of it. "I am responsible, Kate. In every sense of the word." His smile faded as he watched her face. "Can I ask why?"

"Why I had him?"

He nodded, his eyes intent on her face. She was silent for a few moments, her face shuttered.

"That's kind of complicated to answer," she said finally, lifting a shoulder in an apologetic shrug.

"In other words, you don't want to tell me?" He kept his tone very light, unwilling to press her.

She smiled. "It's more than I want to share right now."

"Fair enough."

She turned in the chair, a little away from him. "You look tired, John. You don't have to keep me company. You should get an early night."

He felt tired. But not ready for sleep, not yet. He'd forgotten how attuned she could be to him. Reading him too easily. He'd forgotten the different shades of gold and blonde and pale wheat in her hair, and the way the lamplight behind her played on it. He looked at her for a long moment, and felt a charge flash through his nerves when her eyes met his.

She was perfectly still, but he could see her pulse beating fast at the side of her neck, just below the ear. "This isn't a good idea," she said, apropos of nothing, her voice breathless.

"I know," he agreed with her, a hundred percent.

"It would make everything so much more complicated." She stared at his mouth.

"You're right. Just complicate the hell out of everything."

Kate dragged in a deep breath. "We're not teenagers. We can control ourselves."

"Yeah … yes, we can." He nodded, shifting his position on the couch uncomfortably.

She stood up. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, me too." He stood, and watched her walk around the room, turning off the lights. When she turned for the stairs he followed her up. Kate reached her bedroom door and stopped, turning back to find him right behind her.

"I …" she started to say, then stopped. John looked down at her, her scent resurrecting all kinds of sense memories from their briefly shared past.

"Kate," He wet his lips, his eyes closing briefly. "I'm not going to lie or pretend it isn't so – right now, the only thing in my head is being with you. But," He put his hand on the doorframe, taking another breath. "If you tell me no, I'll go."

She looked at his throat, the rapid beat in the hollow of it. She had no idea what she wanted. He'd done this to her last time as well, made the decision hers, and hers alone. It wasn't fair. She was aroused, her nipples hard enough to ache at the brush of the thin material of her bra over them, a deep throbbing heat between her legs that she knew he could do something about. She hadn't been with anyone longer than a few dates over the last twelve years because no one else had made her feel as he'd done.

_Ah, the hell with it_.

She looked up at him, her expression almost resigned. "I'm not telling you no, John."

* * *

He woke gradually, hearing the normal suburban noises, seeing filtered light against his closed eyelids, feeling the warmth and softness of a woman's body against his side. For a crystallised moment he thought he was in Lawrence, waking from a long, bad dream. His eyes flew open, and he took in the cream walls and dark furniture of the bedroom, the unlined floral and cream curtains at the windows and his breathing slowed, memory telling him that it wasn't Mary curled up against him, but Kate.

The marrow-deep disappointment segued into memories of last night, and he stretched out a little, trying not to disturb the woman at his side. Making love again, as opposed to having sex. It did complicate the situation, not quite so much for him as it would for her. She deserved better, someone around all the time, someone who wasn't wrapped in a life of violence and revenge. He had the feeling that for as long as he came here, to be with them, she wouldn't look for anyone else, might actively avoid other entanglements. And that would hurt her, in the long run.

He looked down at the spill of blonde hair over his shoulder and arm, the peace in the face that rested, sleeping, against the side of his chest. He couldn't think of a way to keep his promise to his son and not be involved with the boy's mother. He wasn't trying very hard, he knew. Last night had given him an emotional release as well as the physical one, something he hadn't had for a long time, something he knew that he hungered for, someone to care about and feel connected to who was outside of his world entirely, who was safe and made things feel almost normal, if only for a very short time.

He felt her stir against him, her arm curve around his ribs, her thigh slip over his and he let his head fall back against the pillows, just enjoying the feeling, that feeling of belonging somewhere, being accepted here, in her house, in her bed, in her body.

* * *

Adam looked across the table at his father, fork poised half-way to his mouth.

He'd been delighted to wake up and find John still there, sitting with his mother in easy conversation over coffee at the kitchen table when he'd come downstairs. Going to sleep last night, he'd wondered if it would feel like a dream, over with the morning light. But it wasn't, it hadn't been. His father was real, sitting there, a warm smile lighting the dark green eyes as he'd come through the door.

"Uh, what are we doing today?" He looked from his father to his mother, watched them exchange a glance.

"Whatever you want to do, I guess." John shrugged, his mouth lifting at one corner. "Up to you."

Kate nodded. It was her day off and while she might have spent the day getting the house in order, getting the shopping done and cooking a few meals in advance for the week, she wasn't going to, not today.

"I've been going to the park in the mornings, a few of us usually scratch together a game, can you come and watch?"

"Sure." John finished his coffee and smiled. "Your day, Adam, you get to choose."

* * *

_**Richmond, Indiana**_

Dean rolled over in the bed, throwing an arm over his face as the sunlight coming through a crack in the curtains speared into his half-open eyes and set off a chain reaction of throbbing, spiking pain through his head, immediately followed by a rolling sensation in his stomach. He pulled the pillow over his face and lay still, waiting for the multitude of sensations to die back down. _What the hell?_

The events of the previous evening slowly returned. Beer he was used to. Whiskey, not so much. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to shut out the voices in his head, the painful feelings, his sense of loss and guilt and shame. And it had worked, he guessed. He couldn't remember thinking about anything after the second glass. Seemed like everything had a price, amnesia included.

He moved his head slightly under the pillow and was rewarded by an icepick through his temple, reaching to the back of his eyeball. Perhaps moving was a bad idea, for a while at least. His stomach was getting worse though, and if he didn't get to the bathroom pretty soon, he would be cleaning up with the icepick headache, a prospect that made his stomach heave suddenly.

He scrambled out of the bed, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other pressed tightly against the side of his head where the pain drilled into him the worst, and stumbled to the bathroom, reaching the toilet in time to yak the contents of last night's drinking session straight in. The smell made him dry retch for a few more minutes before he was able to pull away, half-collapsing to the floor and resting there, the cool tiles and prone position providing relief to the agony of his head.

_God. How'd Dad do it, night after night?_

He had to get up, take some painkillers, flush his system out with water and get some food down. He had work to do and self-inflicted wounds didn't count for crap with his father. He lay there for a bit longer, waiting for everything to slowly settle down again.

It wasn't so bad when Dad was around, he thought hazily. They talked almost exclusively about the hunt they were working on, or the hunt to come, and went through the familiar, soothing rituals of weapon cleaning and checks. There wasn't time to think, mostly. But when he wasn't there … there was too much time to think and his brain went into overdrive, pulling out every single memory and torturing him with them.

There was Sam. And there was Cassie. And then Sam again. And then a repeat of the time he'd spent with Cassie. More Sam. More Cassie. Until the bottle had looked like his only salvation.

He'd gotten a load of research done on the road yesterday and he thought he knew what was happening there. But he couldn't do anything about it because his father was god-knew-where doing god-knew-what. The facts all fit. The solution was trickier. But doable, he thought. They'd have leave town immediately but that was no hardship. He had it all planned out. And then he'd had had to stop. Which gave him time. Time to think.

He kept thinking that he was finally good with Sam's leaving. Understanding that his brother wanted a different life, was different from them in fact. Then it would sneak back up on him … the thoughts that Sam had really wanted to be rid of them, rid of him, and that college and the dream of a normal life were just excuses. It wasn't a rational thought. He knew how hard his brother had worked on his grades, so that he had the chance. But it didn't seem to matter whether it was rational or not. It kept circling in his head, like a buzzard over a desert kill.

The mess with Cassie was even worse, in a way. It had taken all his courage, and all his belief in her to tell her the truth. Because he'd been hoping for something more, something long-lasting. Her derision, and then anger, had come at him when he'd been utterly defenceless and vulnerable, standing there without a shred of armour. And he hadn't been able to pretend that it hadn't mattered, that it hadn't hurt because it had, it had hurt so deeply that he'd barely been able to keep working, the first few days afterwards.

He'd told himself all the usual stuff, he'd tried to forget it, to forget her. This time none of that had worked. When he'd been eleven, he'd gotten a metal filing from Bobby's workshop lodged in his foot. He hadn't noticed it at the time but the razor-sharp curl of metal had worked its way into his flesh deeply by the time the infection gave it away. It took Bobby two hours to cut and dig the damned thing out, by which time he'd been almost catatonic with the pain. Thinking about Cassie was like that. The more he tried to dig out the memories, the more wretchedly painful it all was. And the refusal of his brain to let it go was an infection of some sort, he supposed.

He raised himself onto his elbow slowly, relieved when no stabs of pain followed. He thought he could probably get to his feet now that the toxic mess in his stomach was gone. His head began to throb, slowly at first, just a warning volley as he straightened up. There was no helping it, he'd have to get up sooner or later. He reached up to the lip of the sink and pulled himself to his feet, stopping and waiting when things seemed to be getting too close to exploding again.

Leaning over the sink, he turned on the cold tap and let the water run down the side of his face, over his eye and the temple and cheek, the cold helping to mute the sensations. When the throbbing slowed down, he drank mouthful after mouthful of the cold, clean water and it was with reluctance that he finally reached out and turned off the tap.

He straightened up, looking at his face in the small, grimy mirror above the sink. He looked like hell, his eyes bloodshot and the shadows around them standing out against his skin which was too pale. He closed his eyes and walked slowly to the bathroom door, leaning against the frame as he thought about what to do next. If he could get dressed without needing to lower his head, he thought he'd be fine.

* * *

_**Windom, Minnesota**_

They spent the day like a normal family, a situation that was far from normal for all of them. Adam felt his hope rising as John walked along with Kate, his arm casually over her shoulders, the two of them talking easily, comfortably. He'd been elated when his team had won the first game, his own goal a spectacular mixture of skill and luck. Kate had brought her camera and taken a picture of him shooting, half in the air. She'd taken several more photos of him with his father, John's face open and laughing.

The picnic by the river had been ad-hoc, sandwiches bought from a nearby diner, the warm late-spring sunshine inviting lounging around in the new grass, a remote-controlled sailing regatta on the river adding interest and a crowd.

Dinner and a movie had completed the day in the most satisfying way, Adam thought, especially when he'd seen them kissing in the row behind him. John had driven them home in the beautiful black car, and he'd leaned against the back seat, listening to the powerful engine purring in a state of disbelieving bliss. Why had his mother thought this would be a bad idea?

* * *

"So, uh, you and Mom, still get along, um, okay?" he ventured as he and John climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

John looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, we get along, Adam."

"But you really like her, don't you?" he pressed, stopping at the top landing to look up at his father. "I mean, you kissed her – and uh, last night …"

John took a deep breath, suddenly realising where this was going. "Yeah, I care about your mom very much, Adam. That's not the reason I can't stay, son."

Adam turned down the hall, heading for his bedroom. "Oh."

John followed him, stopping in the doorway and watching him get into bed, then walking slowly to the edge and sitting down. He looked at the boy's face, seeing not much of either his own features or Kate's there, the rounded cheeks still a child's. "You remember I told you that I have a dangerous job?"

Adam nodded, uncertain of how that fit in.

"It's dangerous to other people, Adam. To anyone that I get close to." He looked away for a moment, trying to think of how to explain without actually explaining. "Sometimes, because of my job, people can get drawn into that danger."

"Are you a secret agent or something like that?" Adam looked up him, not really believing it, that was a little-kid thing, to believe something like that, but he'd seen a movie where someone had brought danger to his family because he'd seen or done something, he couldn't remember which it had been, that other people had wanted to know about and the bad guys had come after his family even after the feds had moved him to another place, with a different name. "Or like, in the Witness Protection Program?"

"No. Nothing like that." John smiled a little. "I'm – what I do – it's more like a mechanic. I fix things when they go wrong, with, uh, people's lives. You know how sometimes criminals that the police catch and put in jail might want revenge on the police who caught them?"

Adam nodded, his eyes widening.

"Well, sometimes, the job that I do can bring a similar kind of danger to people I know, people I've been with for a while" He chewed his lip, trying to make it clearer without giving the boy nightmares or having him think that he was a secret agent or some kind of Mafia hit-man. "Not all the time, but very occasionally. Enough that I don't want to put you and your mother into any kind of danger like that."

Adam knew what his father meant. Sometimes you had to do what was good for other people, even though it wasn't good for you, or it wasn't what you really wanted. He'd given up summer camp last year because it would've made it too hard for his mom.

"But you'll still visit us? Sometimes?"

"Yeah, I'll be back in September, for your birthday, Adam. And whenever I think it's safe. I promise." He leaned forward and kissed the boy on the forehead, smoothing the shock of hair from his forehead. He had a chance to do it differently with Adam, to not make the mistakes he'd made with Dean and Sam. To be more of a father, less of a Marine, he thought, watching the boy's eyes flutter against tiredness.

"You're going tonight?"

"First thing in the morning. Before it gets light." He looked down at the quickly hidden expression of disappointment on Adam's face. "It'll be September before you know it."

Adam nodded slowly. "It doesn't matter. At least I know you now."

John felt his chest tighten unbearably for a second, and he nodded, his mouth tucking in at one corner. "Yeah, tell your mom I'm glad you made her call, okay? Tomorrow morning, tell I'm glad."

"I will."

"Night, Adam."

"Night, Dad."

* * *

"Are you leaving now?" Kate looked up as he came through the living room door.

He shook his head, sitting down beside her on the couch. "Tomorrow morning."

"Was Adam okay … about that?" She leaned against him, shifting as he put his arm around her, and settling more comfortably against his side.

"Yeah, I think so." He looked down at her. "I told him I'll be back in September, for his birthday, if that's okay with you."

She smiled. "Definitely okay with me."

"He, uh, wondered why I couldn't stay all the time, given that there didn't seem to be a problem between us," he said hesitantly.

"He asked me that this morning." She sighed. "I told him it didn't have anything to do with us, just with what you had to do."

John's eyebrows rose slightly. "It's okay with you? That I can't stay?"

"No. Not all the time." She shrugged. "I'm sure I'm going to get pissed at you sometimes. But I understand that it's not possible." She looked down at his left hand, still bearing his wedding ring on the ring finger. He followed her gaze and nodded.

"I'd understand completely if you'd rather keep us … platonic, Kate. I don't want you to give up opportunities because you think one day things will be different and I'll change my mind and stay." He looked into her face. "It's not something I can change my mind about – that is, it's not about what I want, but what has to happen."

"I understand that, John." She lifted her hand, touching the side of his face, her fingers moving over his cheek, down to his jaw. "And I'm not waiting for a day where anything changes. I'm just content to have whatever you can give."

She straightened up, moving her leg over his, and shifting so that she sat on his lap, facing him, her hands linked behind his neck. "When you left, I didn't think I'd have this again. And I haven't been hiding myself under a rock, I tried to find someone else, I did."

She looked away and pursed her lips, remembering all the times she'd tried. "It didn't work. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with anyone else. It was only that they weren't you."

She turned her head back, looking into his eyes. "You asked me why I wanted to have Adam?"

He nodded.

"I wanted a part of you, with me, all the time." She ducked her head. "Adam was a miracle in a lot of ways."

"Kate …" John's hands slid around her back, his expression regretful.

"Don't feel sorry for me, John," she said softly. "I told you I didn't regret one second of knowing you, and I still don't and I never will."

She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his, revelling in the way his hands tightened on her waist, in the shiver she felt pass through him. He pulled her close, his mouth claiming hers, deepening the kiss until she felt as if she were drowning.

Wrapping her arms and legs around him as he stood up and started walking slowly to the stairs, she ignored the thought of how much it was going to hurt when he wasn't there. He climbed the stairs, one arm holding her against him, the other steadying them both with a grip on the banister, the kiss continuing, his tongue exploring her mouth and sending charges through her nerves, until her skin was aching to be touched, so sensitive that even his grip on her was making her hot and wet.

He shut the bedroom door behind them, and walked to the bed, turning and sitting on the edge as his fingers searched for and found the fastenings of her clothes. She broke the kiss as he pulled off her shirt, his thumbs circling her nipples through the thin silk of her bra. She fumbled with the buttons on her jeans, and he fell back, rolling over on top of her, pulling the jeans over her hips and down her legs. Lying back, she watched him strip, her breath coming faster at the sight of his body, hard and lean, the muscles sliding smoothly under the skin as he moved. No one else had done this, she thought hazily. No one else had this much of an effect over her, desire sparked by anticipation alone.

She wriggled further onto the bed, as he bent his head, pushing her legs open, tasting her, his low moan matched by hers. The rush of pleasure was intense and she arched against his tongue, her lips parted as she stroked her breasts in time with his hot, soft touches. She felt entirely sexual, entirely womanly, when he was with her; it was liberating in a way she'd never considered before, the freedom to take and give pleasure without thought or worry of what he was thinking of her. She knew what he thought of her, and that knowledge gave her the freedom to be herself, most deeply here in the intimate privacy that was theirs, but with a knock-on confidence that came with her anywhere else as well. She didn't watch her words with him, she didn't curb her opinions or worry about impressing him or not impressing him. It was the reason she loved him.

He looked up at her face as she came wildly around his fingers, the sight and feel and the taste of her on his lips and tongue hardening him unbearably. Moving slowly up her body, his memories of her guiding him, he knew what would keep her excited, what deepened her arousal. When he kissed her again, he felt her legs draw up against the outside of his thighs, that silken whisper of her skin against his enough to make him close his eyes and fight to think of something else, anything else, to keep the little control he still had. When he opened them again, she was looking at him, looking into them, and his mouth covered hers as he pushed slowly inside her.

* * *

Much later, he woke, knowing it was time to leave. His body was relaxed, the muscles soft and loose and warm, and he realised that he didn't dream when he was with her. Or at least, he didn't remember his dreams, didn't wake soaked in sweat with a scream aching behind his teeth. Maybe, one day, it would be over, and he would be able to come here and stay. Introduce Dean and Sam to their brother. Reclaim a normal life.

He sighed. It was a nice dream, but it would never happen. Not like that, at least. He could stay only if he were left alone – and he was never left alone. The things he hunted came after him from time to time as well. Even if Azazel was killed, Sam … Sammy still had to face the legacy the demon had left behind. Nothing would change. It would never be over.

He kissed Kate gently, easing himself out from under her, tucking the covers around her as he did. He would visit, and hold the moments he could have with them in his heart but he wouldn't be able to make it permanent. That option, that life, was gone for good.

Dressing silently, he picked up his bag, looking back at her again, the yearning to stay so powerful he had to turn away before it robbed him entirely of his will. He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, and walked down the hall, opening Adam's door an inch, to check on his son. The streetlights outside the room spilled a little light through the gap between the curtains, enough for him to see Adam lying on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, legs stretched out and the covers clear of his feet. Like his big brother, he recognised with a smile that was painful. He closed the door and went down the stairs, careful to keep to the wall edge to minimise any creaking.

* * *

The Impala was waiting for him, a darker shadow against the black of the road and he started the engine, pulling out onto the street and turning around, heading for the roads that would take him to the interstate, take him back to Indiana.

After a few moments driving, he found his thoughts had turned back to his oldest son, and he briefly wondered if he could do this, living two lives, neither of which were what he wanted, neither of which gave his children what they wanted.

Dean was twenty-three. And more than capable of handling anything that might come his way. He was also surprisingly sensitive, his imagination vivid and empathic. And although he'd never admit it, he needed the support of his father, his family, to get through the times when he was lost and in pain.

John shook his head. Sam wouldn't have looked back. He would be fitting on the campus, pretending that his family didn't exist, or making up a new background, focussing his attention on what he was doing and what he wanted to achieve without a thought for what he'd left behind.

Dean was mourning his brother. And something else, he thought, something that had happened in Ohio over the two weeks he'd gone to Missouri to get information about the case. Something he hadn't mentioned or even hinted at but that'd hung over him like a shroud when John had returned. The combination of the two things would be pushing Dean to his limits. He felt a sudden urgency to get back to Richmond as quickly as possible.

* * *

_**Richmond, Indiana.**_

Dean turned the truck around at the end of the gravel road and drove slowly back toward the highway, the warm gold light of the setting sun gilding half his face. This was where most of the attacks had occurred. He pushed aside the nagging voice in his head that was telling him it was a very bad idea to be out here on his own. Bad because all the victims had been out here on their own. Bad because his father had specifically told him not to come out here on his own.

He looked through the windshield of the truck at the cars passing by on the highway in front of him. He was pretty sure he knew who the spirit was now. And he thought he knew why it was killing. But being able to stop it … that was going to be difficult, maybe impossible.

He glanced down at his watch, surprised to see the time. He'd been out here for two hours. He looked down the highway and turned onto it as a break came, pointing the truck back to town.

* * *

John pulled into the motel car park, and slowed down as he realised the truck was gone. He pulled into the slot carefully, siting the car precisely in the middle of the two white painted lines and killed the engine, listening to the engine tick as the metal began to cool, uncertain if he should be worried or not.

He opened the door and pulled his bag from the back seat, locking the car automatically and feeling for the key to the room in his pocket. The deep rumble of the truck's diesel came from behind him and he turned, the wash of relief that both man and truck were here, intact, flooding him. He hadn't quite realised the depth of his worry until it was gone.

Dean turned off the engine and got out, locking up and turning to his father.

"Good timing."

"Yeah. Where've you been?"

"Went out to the road to check something." Dean looked at his father's face, a hint of defiance in his own.

"Didn't I say – specifically – not to do that?" John saw the defiance, and had to hide the smile that threatened to make a mockery of his words.

"I went during the day. Plenty of other traffic."

"That's not the point, is it?"

"I found the spirit, Dad." He turned to the door and unlocked it, pushing it open for his father to precede him. John stared at him for a moment, then walked through, dumping his bag at the foot of the bed.

"You found it? How?" He sat at the table, pushing the files aside. As he turned back to look at Dean, his eye was caught by the whiskey bottle and glass sitting on the nightstand beside his son's bed. The bottle had been about half-full when he'd left. Now there was less than an inch in the bottom. He looked at Dean's face, seeing the shadows around his eyes and under the cheekbones that the warm sunshine outside had disguised.

"When they started to build the highway, the contract was tendered. Turns out the winning bid was a small conglomerate from Chicago. A _family_-oriented conglomerate from Chicago."

John heard the emphasis and the corner of his mouth lifted. "Italian family business?"

"Yep." Dean went to the fridge and pulled two beers out, passing one to his father as he sat down opposite. "They had a … disagreement … with the concreting business that had been brought in from Indianapolis. Something about the quality of the concrete – that part wasn't very detailed. And the concreter packed up and went home. Except that he didn't. He was run off the highway next to the gravel road, and killed and they concreted the body into the highway."

"Why wasn't there any action by the spirit until now? And why he's killing people who are just driving down the highway?"

"Sal Moleno died two months ago. In his bed, natural causes." Dean looked at his father, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"So the spirit can't get his revenge on the man who killed him."

Dean nodded. "And all the victims had one thing in common."

John sat back, looking at him. "They were all from Chicago?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah, specifically from Beverly."

"Nineteenth Ward?"

"Yeah." He tapped the file in front of him. "But finding out about it was easy. What are we going to do about it?"

John rubbed a hand over his face. "Digging up the highway would probably be more conspicuous than we need."

Dean snorted. "You think?"

"We send it to the feds. They handle cross-state murder anyway. They can do the digging and if they take the remains, then the problem will be solved, from our point of view, anyway."

Dean nodded, relieved. He hadn't been looking forward to coming up with sufficient forged paperwork to convince the county that the highway needed to be dug up.

John looked at the whiskey bottle again and back to his son. Dean's gaze flicked to the bottle.

"You okay?" John looked at him, his eyes dark and serious.

"Yeah." Dean shrugged. "I … yeah, I'm okay."

"What happened in Ohio, Dean?"

"Uh, nothing." He looked away, uncomfortable. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"That doesn't look like you've been handling it all that well."

"Yeah, well. It was … harder … when you were gone," he admitted reluctantly. "I, uh, just had too much time, uh, to think about things."

John nodded sympathetically. "I don't want to push you into talking about something you're not ready to discuss, Dean. I just want to know that you're okay, that it's not eating at you."

Dean shrugged helplessly. "The work helped." He glanced back at the bottle. "The whiskey didn't, really."

"Hangover?"

"I thought I was gonna die." His mouth twitched at the memory.

"One of those things where you have to build up your immunity slowly." John's mouth twisted, mocking himself a little.

"Yeah."

"You did a helluva job, Dean." He got up and gripped his son's shoulder tightly for a moment, then walked past him and put the empty beer bottle into the trash. "I've been driving for twelve hours, so I'm gonna crash."

"You want dinner?" Dean turned in the chair to look at him.

"No. You go ahead. I'm fried." John pulled off his boots and rolled onto the bed, closing his eyes.

* * *

He woke five hours later, not sure of what had brought him out of sleep. In the bed on the other side of the room, he heard a voice, his son's voice, indistinct and soft in the silence of the room.

_"No."_

John rolled off the bed and walked quietly to the other bed. Dean was restless, rolling to one side and then the other.

_"Please, don't, not like this."_ The whispered words were followed by a long ragged inhale.

John sat beside him, looking down at Dean's face, at the anguished expression his son would never have shown in consciousness.

_"Cassie, it's not like that."_

A girl then. In Ohio. One that had had a real impact on his son's heart, judging by the tone of his voice, the plea in it.

_"Don't leave. Don't leave me. No. No."_

John felt his throat close up completely. He'd wondered at what lay behind Dean's devastation at losing Sam. He thought he understood now. Mary had left him. Not of her own choice, but that hadn't mattered to the four-year old suddenly bereft of his mother and thrust into the role of protector of his baby brother, partner to his father. Then Sam had left, making it clear at the time that he was jettisoning his family, that he wouldn't be coming back. And, he guessed, the girl in Ohio had been the one to leave as well.

_Oh, Dean_. John closed his eyes tiredly. There was nothing he could do to ease his son's pain. The need for love, for family had come earlier than he'd expected, but it wasn't a surprise. Those were the things that he'd had, before a yellow-eyed demon and a fire had taken it all away. He'd lost his mother, his home, and to a great extent his father in one terrifying night.

John watched him roll over yet again, and laid his hand on Dean's shoulder. The restlessness seemed to fade, his breathing eased and the wild rolling of his eyes beneath the lids slowed. He drew the covers back over his son and sat there for a while longer, until he heard the deeper, longer breaths of a different sleep cycle take over. Then he went back to his bed and got in, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes.

That one night had changed them all forever. It would never be over, never be finished, he knew that. He had three sons, and he loved them all … but only one of them had been his rock, his partner and confidant, at an age when he should have been sheltered and protected from such things … only one of them had saved him, from despair, from turning into a killing machine without emotion, or an alcoholic without care.

* * *

_Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough._

_~ Jean-Paul Sartre_


	26. Chapter 26 Ain't My Bitch

**Chapter 26 Ain't My Bitch**

* * *

_**Pikeville, Kentucky 2003.**_

"Dean, wake up."

His father's voice, loud and deep and imperative, cut through the tangled, pleasant chaos of Dean's dream.

Rolling onto his side and levering himself onto one elbow, he rubbing tiredly at his eyes with his knuckles.

"What?" He opened an eye resentfully. They'd been driving most of the night, he'd fallen into bed less than … he squinted at his watch … four hours ago.

"Up." His father was walking around the room, packing up his bag, checking his weapons, his expression the familiar hard look he got when he was thinking fast about a job that was worrying him.

"Dad …"

"Now." John took a file from the bag and slapped it down on the table. "I have to get up to Boston, you'll have to take this one by yourself."

"What?" Dean straightened immediately, sleep, and his resentment at his share being cut short, forgotten. "Why Boston?"

"Something's happening there. Not sure what yet, but Jim called and I have to go."

"Then I'll come with you." He pushed the covers back and got to his feet, looking around the floor for his clothes.

"No. Not this time." John stopped moving and looked at him. "I don't know what's going on, so I'm going to have to be near to invisible." He gestured to the file on the table. "And that won't wait."

Dean looked down at the file. Disappearances in east Texas. Exsanguinations. Maybe. No blood had been found in the bodies, but some of the bodies hadn't been found for months so cause of death was a guess, at best. The cops had found six bodies, in what seemed to be a body dump between the railway line and CR 557, in various stages of decomposition.

He got dressed fast and walked to the kitchen counter, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot his father had made.

"Alright." He looked at John. "How long are you going to be?"

His father gave him a dry look. "As long as it takes. I'll call when I get up there."

Dean nodded. "Watch your back."

"Yeah, you too. No unnecessary risks, Dean."

That raised a one-sided grin. "Who, me?"

"Yeah." John slung the duffle over his shoulder and walked out, closing the door behind him. A moment later, Dean heard the rumble of the truck and the crunch of the hard tyres over the gravel lot.

He sat down at the table and swivelled the file around so that it was facing him, flipping open the cover. Two years, the coroner had said the oldest body had been lying hidden in the rough area. They'd searched for dental records, but so far nothing had come back, and the victim was still unidentified.

Turning the pages over one by one, he realised that aside from one victim, the others were also still unidentified. Max Loess was the only one of the six bodies found so far who was local.

That was pretty strange, when you thought about it. It was a small town and it didn't get a lot of through-traffic. He finished his coffee and packed his gear. It would take a couple of days to get down there, not knocking himself out. He liked Texas, the food was good.

* * *

_**Kirbyville, east Texas.**_

The car was parked in a clump of shadows, off the county road. Through binoculars, Dean watched the flashing lights and county vehicles parked a few hundred yards ahead, the scene taped off and several deputies standing around making sure no one got too close. Movement through the trees near the grouping caught his eye and he refocussed the glasses, seeing a body bag on a stretcher emerging from the woods. Another body.

He watched as they loaded it into the back of the coroner's van, then put the glasses down and turned on the engine, reversing back until he could turn around discreetly. Definitely a dump site then. That made seven. He ran back through the notes in the file in his mind.

Victims were all male, twenty-five to fifty-five years old. The state of the bodies, and the exposure to the elements had removed any means of being able to tell what kind of men they were, neither the coroner nor the cops had ventured to put anything into the Occupation field on the forms. They might get an ID on the latest one, but Dean was thinking they wouldn't. He had a theory about the victims. Max didn't fit it, unfortunately, but perhaps he was the obligatory exception.

He drove back across the river and railway lines to the small motel on the north-eastern edge of the town, parking in front of the room. He'd have to head down to the coroner's office in a few hours, after they'd done the autopsy, but for now he needed to figure out a way to verify his theory.

Taking the gear bag in, he slid it under the bed, and stripped down to have a shower, tossing his dirt-and-mud stained clothes into a pile on the floor. The police scanner had alerted him to the latest body find, and he'd crawled through the woods from the northern end for half an hour before being able to get a good look at the site without catching the attention of anyone else there.

When the water ran down the drain clean and he could no longer feel the grit of the forest floor in his hair, he got out, drying fast and wrapping the towel around his hips as he wiped the cracked mirror above the sink free of condensation. The face that looked back at him was shadowed over jaw, cheeks and throat and he let out a soft exhale, reaching for the can of shaving cream and razor.

He had a dozen fake identification badges in the glove box of the car, made up with as much care as possible. State trooper, US Marshall, press passes, federal agents. None of them stood up to a close perusal but they gave him access to most scenes and opened doors that were otherwise closed. He'd already decided that the FBI would be most suited to this job, since he needed access to the files and coroner's office. And Fibbies were invariably clean-shaven, buttoned-down and suit-wearing cogs. The cheap charcoal suit was already hanging up, the synthetic material creaseless.

He wiped the foam from his face and looked into the mirror critically, combing his fingers through his damp hair to get it to lay flat. He could pass for government, he decided.

He pulled on clean jeans and t-shirt, and opened the map of the town on the table. Within easy walking distance of the depot, he thought, there would be a place where the victims had all been. Where they'd been chosen.

In the '30s, America had been full of movement, people going from one city to another, looking for work, desperate for money, for food, for shelter. Riding the rails had been the quickest and easiest way to get around, and certainly the cheapest. Most people thought that those days were gone, but for those without funds or support, it was still the quickest way to get around, provided you knew what you were doing. Dean knew that the depot off south Kaysee Avenue was a freight yard. And freight trains sometimes carried people, people who belonged nowhere, had no identification, no homes, no families, no ties. People who weren't missing in the strictest sense of the word because no one missed them.

He picked up his keys and coat, patting the pocket without thinking for his automatic. He was looking for a place to eat, or a rundown bar, and he was willing to bet that he'd find the victims had all been there.

* * *

The diner was set back from the road, maybe forty yards from the railway lines, an empty liquor store on one side, and a small hole-in-the-wall bar on the other. The exterior was plain, the plate glass windows soaped over and covered with out-of-date pasted flyers, torn and tattered, paint peeling in long ribbons from the architraves. The sign hung askew, swinging slightly in the breeze that came off the river and ran between the buildings and the trees on the other side of the lines. It kicked up the dirt in the parking lot, a pale, powdery dust that puffed up with every footstep, and coated the buildings and trucks and cars parked there in a fine shroud of beige.

He looked back at the car, sighing inwardly at her new two-tone appearance; only the roof was still a gleaming black. The sign on the door said 'Open' and he pushed at the door, his eyes widening slightly in the dim interior, murky after the brightness of the outside sunshine.

It was a single room, long and narrow, with a long counter running along the back wall and booths built against the front and to his right. A dozen small tables filled the space in between, all of them empty. There were three men sitting at the counter; two were yard workers, their navy overalls and steel-capped boots obvious. The third sat at the far left end of the counter, dressed in jeans and a long coat, too warm for the heat of the morning, his hair long and unkempt and thickly threaded with grey. In the first booth to Dean's right, a couple of teenagers were sharing a plate of fries and discussing something earnestly in low voices.

Dean walked up to the counter, taking a stool a few feet from the workers, and nodding at the waitress who held up one finger, her pen flashing over her pad as she took the order from the vagabond at the end. Dean watched as the man pulled a few crumpled notes from the inside pocket of his jacket, counting out the cash carefully and exactly.

The waitress poured a coffee and set it onto the counter next to the man and walked up to Dean, rolling her eyes slightly.

"Too many damned tramps coming through on the trains now," she said by way of explanation as she pulled out her pad. "What can I get you, hon?"

"Uh, coffee and a breakfast special, thanks." He looked at her, seeing the dry, slightly pocked skin, too-brassy home-dye job and the lines that were drawn around her eyes and mouth. All entirely too human, he thought, offering a smile. The name tag pinned to her pocket identified her as Mabel.

"How often do the freights run through here?"

"Every four hours, every damned day." She tucked her pencil behind her ear, and put the order onto the clip, getting a clean cup from under the counter and pouring him a fresh coffee from the pot.

"Do they stop at the depot?" He took the cup, and sipped it, his brows lifting slightly at the taste.

"Change crews there."

"You get a lot of the workers from the yards?" He looked around the room casually.

"Yeah, we get the shift changes, breakfast and lunch every day. We're the closest." She wiped the counter and rinsed out the cloth. "Three times a week we get the crews for the night trains coming in to eat before they start, and the ones coming off as well."

"Where do most of the trains come from?"

She smiled and tilted her head to the two yard workers along the counter. "You'd have to ask them that, hon. I just work here."

He nodded, wondering if it would be easier to catch the workers at the bar next door after their shifts. He'd come back after he'd seen the coroner, he thought. Check out both places. He looked again at the man at the end of the counter, who seemed to feel his gaze, turning to look at him.

The face under the lank hair was lined and grimy, blue-grey eyes and high, wide cheekbones giving it a dignity that was otherwise lacking. His age was impossible to tell, he could have been forty, could have been sixty. Dean got up and walked down past the workers to the man, taking the stool on the short L section of the counter and nodding to him.

"Buy you breakfast?"

The man looked back at him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Now why would you do that?"

He looked down at the counter for a moment, weighing his answers. "I've been hungry," he said finally with a slight shrug, noting the man's accent. North and east, he thought, Virginia maybe.

"Have you? You look well-fed to me."

Dean's mouth quirked. "Had better luck recently."

The man nodded, relaxing slightly. "Yeah, it's all about luck."

"If you don't want to eat, it's no big deal." Dean looked at him. "But if you do, it's on me, and it's not charity."

"Stan Marchant." The tramp held out his hand, the skin and nails grey with deeply inground dirt.

"Dean Richards." He took the hand and shook it, glancing down the counter and catching the waitress' eye. She walked up to them reluctantly.

"I'll have a breakfast special." Stan said softly. She looked at him for a moment, then flicked a glance at Dean.

"You buying?"

He nodded. "Two more coffees too, thanks, Mabel."

The pencil went back behind her ear and she turned around to clip up the order and pick up the pot.

"Thanks." Stan looked away, his shoulder twitching slightly.

"No problem." Dean shook his head. "You come in on the freights?"

Stan nodded, glancing sideways at the yard workers further up the counter. "Yeah, I've been riding for a while now, need to get over to New Mexico, see a man there about a job."

Dean let that go. "Which trains run through here?"

"Surprising number. It's a crew change depot, a'course, so there's more than there would be if it weren't. I came down from Missouri last night."

"When do you go out again?"

"Tomorrow night, I think. Should be a freight going straight through to Dallas. From there I can get to Roswell no problem."

"You know anyone else riding the rails? Anyone you haven't seen for a while?" He knew it was a long shot, especially if Stan was telling the truth about going to New Mexico for a job, but he had to try. And he didn't think for a second that the job story was true.

Stan looked at him for a long moment. "I know a few guys, ride a bit. We don't exactly catch up on a regular basis. And doing this, you know, it ain't a cakewalk. People get hurt, people get killed."

"Yeah." He sat back as Mabel brought the two plates and set them down in front of them.

"Thanks."

She nodded and turned away. Stan looked down at his plate for a moment then picked up his flatware and started to eat. The food was as good as the coffee and Dean joined him, trying to think of anything he could ask that would give him something to follow up on.

"I ain't seen Fred Hoskins for a while," Stan said a couple of minutes later, chewing his food slowly as he looked at him. "We used to ride together sometimes."

Dean swallowed his mouthful. None of the photos of the bodies had been in good enough shape for him to get an ID from even a close friend. "He have, uh, any identifying marks? Scars or broken bones, anything like that?"

"You think those bodies they're pulling out across the tracks are … like me?"

"I think it's a possibility."

"And your interest in this is?" He looked at Dean curiously.

"Legal." Dean looked down at his plate, a story popping into his head easily. "And confidential. I'm a PI, looking for someone."

"Uh-huh." Stan took another mouthful, savouring the taste as he thought that over, plainly believing Dean's story as much as Dean had believed his. "Fred had a steel plate in his head. Got it in Vietnam, he told me."

Dean's gaze dropped back to his plate. Vic number three had had a small steel plate in his skull. The rest of the body had been almost fully decomposed.

They finished the meal together and he looked at Stan, his expression serious. "You be careful tonight. Stay around other people."

The hobo's mouth lifted at one corner. "You think I'd be doing this if I were sociable?"

"Be sociable tonight," Dean suggested. He caught the waitress' eye and she came toward them, holding the check.

* * *

The coroner had barely glanced at his identification, looking harried as he'd gestured for Dean to follow him into the morgue.

"No idea who this one is either." He pulled out the sliding stainless drawer. "But he was a bit fresher than the others."

Dean watched as the man pulled back the cotton sheet.

"What do you suppose did that?" He pointed at a series of ragged holes where the neck joined the shoulder, under the deltoid muscles on the left side of the victim.

Dean looked at them closely, holding his breath against the faint sweet smell of decay that exuded from the body.

The holes were torn, ripped almost but right over the collarbone. He turned to the coroner. "What blood vessels are here? Under the collarbone?"

"There are a few, the largest one would probably be the subclavian artery."

"That's close to the heart, right? So the blood would be flowing out pretty strongly if that were …" He looked down at the hole. "Uh … chewed through?"

"Uh, yeah." He lifted the shoulder slightly, pointing to the muscles that came down from the neck. "There are two other smaller arteries in this vicinity as well, the suprascapular and the transverse cervical."

"Was there any blood in the body when they brought it in?"

"No, but with wounds like these, the guy would have bled out fairly quickly."

"If he was on his stomach." Dean looked under the shoulder. "But if he were lying on his back, wouldn't any remaining blood pool in the skin of his back, when the heart stopped beating?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes."

"Did you find lividity on either his front or back?"

"No."

"So maybe he didn't bleed out."

"Hmmm."

"Did the cops ask for a tox screen?" Dean was staring at the edges of the wounds, brows drawn together.

"Yeah, same as the others."

"When will you have the results?"

"It's got a rush on it, but well, probably no earlier than next week." He shrugged.

"Look at this." Dean moved out of the way, pointing at the wound edges. "That look like someone stuck the edges together, then pulled them apart again? It looks … melted."

The coroner picked up a magnifying glass with a light and peered at the wound through it. "It's very torn up, but you're right, it looks like there's a second wound over the first."

"Can you do … uh … a biopsy of that section, see what or if a substance was used to get that effect?"

"Yes, I'll do that right now." He turned away, going to the bench for a scalpel and tweezers. Dean watched as he excised a small portion of the flesh from the wound, holding it aside and dropping it into a small plastic bag.

"You have good eyes, Agent Richards."

"Comes with the job." Dean turned away as the drawer rolled shut. "I'd appreciate a call about that, if you find something." He pulled out a card and handed it to the coroner, who nodded.

"Oh yeah," Dean turned back to the coroner. "The victim who had the steel plate?"

"Yeah. Couldn't get anything off that plate."

"Try checking his dental against military records – old ones. He might be Fred Hoskins, not sure that's the real name."

The coroner blinked at him. "That was fast work, Agent."

"Just luck." Dean nodded to him and left the morgue, walking slowly through the building and out to the parking lot.

_What kind of creature was he dealing with?_

* * *

His phone rang as he was opening his beer.

"Dean? I'm here."

"What's the situation?" He put the bottle on the table and focussed on his father's voice.

"Looks worse than we thought. I'll be here for a few days." John's voice was distant and crackling. "How're you doing on the east Texas thing?"

"Looks like the vics are all homeless, riding the rails. There's a freight train depot here and they change crews, so it's an ideal spot to get on and off."

"What's hunting them?"

"That's getting more complicated. I think it's definitely taking the blood – all of it. The site's a dump, the cops pulled another body out this morning." He sat down in the chair, and picked up the bottle, twisting off the lid and swallowing a mouthful. "The wounds are weird looking, multiple punctures, and almost melted around the edges. Coroner won't have the tox screens back for at least a week."

In Boston, John frowned. _Melted?_

"I think the victims all went to either the diner or the bar near the tracks. Both places are less than fifty yards from the depot, both stay open late, mostly serving the yard workers and crews."

"See anything in there?"

"I went to the diner in the morning. Nothing out of place." He flipped open the file again, looking at his notes. "I'll check them both tonight."

"Yeah, well watch your back. You're on your own, so don't do anything reckless."

"I could say the same thing to you." Dean retorted.

"Jim's here. I've got my ass covered," his father told him, hesitating a moment before he added, "Just be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, I will."

The connection broke and he looked down at the phone in his hand. As usual, his father had kept the conversation to what he wanted to know, and had given out nothing about what he was doing.

Dean tipped the beer up, swallowing the rest. There was nothing he could do for his father now. And he had enough to deal with here.

* * *

At half-past seven, he drove to the diner, squeezing into a parking space near the outside of the lot, and walking over to the door. This time, the place was almost full, the counter, tables and booths filled with the navy blue uniforms of the railway staff, leavened by a sprinkling of blue-collar workers from the small factory on the other side of the yards. He found an empty seat down the end of the counter and looked around, spotting Stan sitting by himself at one of the small tables on the other side of the room.

"What can I get you?"

The voice behind him was low and velvety, and he turned around to see the evening shift's waitress waiting on the other side of the counter. Unlike Mabel, the woman was very tall and slender, straight natural-looking blonde hair falling down her back, the front drawn back with a wide band, accentuating large dark brown eyes and a full-lipped mouth.

"Uh, what's good?" He leaned forward, looking at her.

"The mixed grill seems popular tonight." She looked back at him, an eyebrow arched questioningly. She exuded a mixture of boredom and resignation, as if working here was far below her natural talents but for some reason she couldn't leave. Dean looked at the name tag pinned to the pocket above her breast.

"I'll give the mixed grill a try, Charlene." He smiled at her, the one-sided smile that melted most of the ladies on first try. It faltered as she stared back at him coolly, writing the order on her pad without needing to look down.

"Right." She turned away and clipped the order up and went to serve someone else. He was watching her when he felt someone stop beside him.

"She's looking for a meal ticket out of here."

He turned and saw a young woman standing next to him, wearing the same uniform as Charlene and holding a wide tray covered in dishes, straight black hair cut short and spiky around her face.

"You need to be wearing Armani and Gucci to get her impressed with you," she added, wrinkling her nose. "Cute isn't enough."

"Damn, it always used to be." His mouth twisted slightly.

"It is for me. I'm Callie." The girl smiled at him, her eyes lighting up. "I get off at ten, maybe we could get together?"

He considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm working."

"All the time?" She tried to lighten the question with an arched eyebrow, but didn't really have the experience or confidence to pull that off. She was maybe nineteen or twenty, and he realised, at twenty four, he felt old next to her. He shrugged.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Maybe you'll change your mind." She turned and walked past him, through the swinging door to the left of the counter that led into the kitchen.

Charlene brought him a coffee, and then his meal, her eyes meeting his both times, almost challengingly. He wasn't sure of the expression in them, but she didn't linger, and she didn't respond to either his comments or the smile that accompanied them, her attention seeming to be on him, but not really. He had the feeling she was waiting for someone.

At eight-thirty, the crew from the train came in, followed several minutes later by two more dishevelled-looking men, their mismatched clothing and greyish skin speaking of little money and none to spare for a bed or a shower or a home. They looked around and walked to Stan's table, sitting down and helping themselves to the plate of fries that sat in front of him.

Dean looked around the room, watching each of the patrons carefully, looking to see if anyone other than himself had noted their entrance, or was watching the table of three. The other customers seemed oblivious to the three tramps, looking through them more often than at them. He couldn't see any signs of tension or readiness in any of them, and he wondered if he was on the right track.

Charlene came up behind him and put the check on the counter, her fingers brushing his arm. He jumped, turning fast and looked down at her hand, as it withdrew. His gaze flicked up to her face and he caught her slight smile at his reaction.

"Didn't mean to scare you," she said, her tone both conciliatory and derisive.

"Uh, no. You didn't." He looked down at the check.

"Right."

He gave up and pulled out his wallet, putting a twenty down. "Keep the change."

"I will." She walked away, hips swinging slightly and he shook his head as he stood. Time to check out next door. Maybe he'd have more luck there.

* * *

The bar was even smaller than the diner, and made no bones about its purpose in life. The counter ran along one wall, bottles and glasses on the shelves behind it, and the rest of the room held small square tables. The décor was non-existent, the walls painted a plain white, the furniture stained unevenly in a reddish-brown that might have been meant to resemble mahogany, the floor covered in an unlovely linoleum designed for ease of cleaning, the next step up from sawdust.

Like the diner, it was full. In one corner a television set had been screwed into a bracket high on the wall, showing an old black and white movie with the sound turned down and watched by no one. The prevalence of navy blue uniforms was relieved by more of the factory workers here, and the conversations bounced off the hard walls, blurring into each other and creating a low wall of white noise.

Dean spotted an opening at the counter and walked to it, tucked in between two yard workers. The bartender was at the other end, pouring out beers, her back to him. He found himself a little surprised when she turned, her heart-shaped face and large dark blue eyes, framed by long auburn hair, seemed out of place in the low-rent surroundings. She smiled when she reached him. Her shirt was tight across her chest, unbuttoned to below her cleavage, and the tops of her breasts swelled enticingly against the edge of the material.

"You're new. What can I get you?" Her voice was soft and throaty, reminding him a little of the woman in the diner next door.

"Beer, thanks." He looked around as she poured the draught. "Yeah, just passing through."

"Wish that were me, just passing through, I mean." She smiled again as she took his money, ringing it up and counting back his change. "Not likely though."

He looked at her curiously. She was saying the words right, but it sounded … almost rehearsed to him, as if she didn't truly care about staying or going.

"How long have you been here?"

"Seems like forever, but just a couple of years." Again, the words were saying one thing, but her tone and the lack of interest in her eyes contradicted them. She saw another customer gesturing from the corner of her eye and turned away.

He nursed the beer, watching the customers. No one here seemed to fit the profile, and as in the diner, he had the sense that no one was waiting, looking for someone, except for him, of course.

He was just finishing his beer when Stan and his buddies walked in, weaving their way through the tables to find themselves places at the bar. Dean saw the bartender turn to them, smiling, and his brows drew together. She leaned close to Stan as she set their drinks on the countertop, the unbuttoned V of her shirt giving the three men a good view of the creamy curves the shirt was tightly restraining. He watched as she leaned further over the bar, saying something quietly in Stan's ear. He drew back slightly, shaking his head. Dean's eyes narrowed as Stan picked up his drink and walked to an empty table away from the counter. One of his companions leaned close as she gestured to him, and he nodded eagerly when she spoke to him.

_What was that about?_ Dean wondered, glancing away as she looked down the counter.

* * *

Half an hour before closing he slid off the stool and went to the restroom, ridding himself of the five beers he'd consumed. The door opened behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder, seeing the two men who'd come in with Stan. Both looked old, although he thought they were younger than they looked. The one that the bartender had spoken to seemed to be the more assertive.

"What'd she say, Mike?" The other one wheedled as they unzipped in front of the urinals.

"Nuthin'. Quit asking me about it." Mike closed his eyes and turned slightly away from his companion. Dean kept his gaze firmly on the tiles in front of his face, absently reading the street wit that had been graffitied over them.

"Ain't we buddies, Mike? Didn't I stop you from a'falling that time? You can tell me what she said, I ain't gonna tell Stan."

Mike exhaled. "Fine. She said she wanted to meet me at closing. An' I ain't taking you along so you can forgit about that."

"She wanted to meet you?" The other man frowned. Dean frowned inwardly as well, unable to imagine the girl with the auburn hair being even remotely interested in Mike, whom he could smell distinctly across the five feet that separated them. There was slumming, and then there was slumming … and she hadn't seemed the type for either.

"Yeah."

Mike didn't seem inclined to elaborate on why that might be so perhaps he didn't believe it, either.

Dean zipped up and turned to the sink to wash his hands, hoping for a bit more to the conversation. The two men behind him, however, finished and did up their zippers, turning and walking out without saying anything else. He followed them out, watching as they rejoined Stan at the small table. He turned the other way, going out the front door, and walking to the car. He'd stick around, see what happened. It wouldn't be the first time a beautiful woman had turned out to be a monster.

He watched the customers trickle out slowly, the lights in the diner going out first. Charlene came out a few minutes later, locking the door behind her, her uniform covered by a knee-length red coat, tightly cinched at the waist. She walked down the shallow steps and across the dirt lot, then stopped and waited in the shadows of the next building. Dean picked up the binoculars, sliding across the front seat to the other side of the car as he focussed them on her. He saw the flare of a match and the soft red embers as she lit a cigarette, clearly ready to wait for a while.

The bar lights went off a minute later, and he looked at the door. Stan was standing on the dirt in front of the building, arguing with Mike. The third man stood beside them, shifting his weight from foot to foot, either uncomfortable with the conversation or cold, Dean couldn't tell which.

The bartender came out of the door and closed and locked it behind her, walking slowly down the steps toward the men, a short black coat belted around her, her hair glowing a deep red under the outside light.

Dean watched as Stan threw up his hands and turned abruptly on his heel, striding away from his friend and the woman, the other man gesturing apologetically as he followed.

The sharp tap against the car window made Dean jump, dropping the binoculars onto the seat. His head snapped around and he saw the girl from the diner with the short dark hair standing outside the car, looking at him. Callie, he remembered. He slid back across the seat, unwinding the window and looking up at her.

"What?"

"You watching them?" Callie glanced at the bartender who'd slipped her arm through Mike's and was walking slowly with him across the lot.

Dean stared at her in disbelief, his mind a blank. "Yeah. Go home."

She opened the door and slid into the seat, almost on top of him before he realised what she was doing. "They'll be less likely to notice us if I'm in the car."

"Get out of my car." He looked at her furiously, aware that he couldn't have this conversation and keep an eye on what the women were doing at the same time. "Now."

"Why're you watching them?" She turned to him and passed him the binoculars, gesturing outside. He took them and turned away, refocussing as he picked up Mike again.

Under the last light on the edge of the building that held the empty liquor store, he saw the bartender stop, turning to Mike and kissing him. He moved the glasses to the deep shadows where Charlene had been waiting and couldn't see her. Maybe she'd taken off while he'd been arguing with the girl beside him. He swung the glasses back to the corner and watched the bartender and Mike walk up the street, away from him.

He put the binoculars down as he considered his options. There was something weird about both of the women, but some people were just weird, you couldn't gank them for that. Maybe the bartender like her men rough and smelling like urinals. It was possible. He'd come across a couple of women who'd been … interesting … in their bedroom preferences.

He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then turned to the girl next to him. "What do you want?"

She shrugged slightly. "Just wondered why you were so interested in them."

"Do you know anything about them?" He looked back out at the lot, empty of cars now and silent.

"They're related somehow, sisters, maybe. But they hate each other, that's why they don't work in the same place." She chewed on the edge of her fingernail. "They turned up a couple of years ago, and Teddy – he owns the diner and the bar – was surprised that they wanted jobs, but they're good at it, and he thinks that having good-looking waitresses brings in more dough, so they do the night shifts and Mabel and Carl do the day shifts."

Dean looked at her more carefully. "And your interest in this is?"

She looked at him and away again, and in the dim reflected light from the exterior lights lining the buildings he saw a faint red flush creeping up her neck.

"Oh. Uh …," He really didn't have time for this. He had a bad feeling about Mike. "Look, any other time, it would be different. But I meant what I said about needing to work."

She looked back at him, her chin lifting slightly. "Sure, yeah, I get that."

"Good." He waited for her to move. "Uh …"

"Can I get a ride home?" She looked out through the windshield. "Please? All these deaths … I live out of town – not far but I don't have wheels, and it's been kind of scary."

He rubbed his forehead tiredly and nodded. "Yeah, okay. Where do you live?"

"County Road 558."

He started the car and pulled out of the lot, heading down the road that Mike had been walking with the bartender. There was nothing to see, of course. Nothing obvious, at any rate.

Following her instructions, his eyes narrowed as they came onto the road leading to the dump site. The back of his neck was prickling, and he drove slowly until she pointed to the turn off.

The road was short and dead-ended a couple of hundred yards from the turn, in the yard of an old frame house.

"You live here?" Dean looked at it, lit up by the car's headlights. It looked rundown, two of the windows had holes in them.

"Yeah, it's not much, just all me and my sister can afford right now."

He felt her slide toward him and turned his head as her hand ran up along his thigh.

"Callie … uh … no means no." He tried to lighten the rejection with a smile, his hand stopping hers before it got any further.

"Just a goodnight kiss?" Her eyes were large and dark, her lips slightly parted and shining in the dim light of the dash as he looked down at her.

Knowing he would regret it at some later point, he bent his head, his mouth meeting hers. She wound an arm around his neck, and he felt her tongue trace over the inside of his lips, run over his tongue. The taste of her mouth was sweet, like honey. Then she released him, looking into his eyes, her mouth curved in a smile.

He felt himself sliding down the seat and tried to focus his eyes on her. The sweetness in his mouth had turned bitter, coating his tongue, the lining of his throat. His vision blurred further and he was falling toward her, unable to make a sound, or move his limbs.

Callie looked down at him for a moment, then pulled him across the seat easily, propping him against the passenger side door. She slid behind the wheel and put the car into gear, swinging around the side of the house and driving into the large shed that was hidden behind it. She shut off the engine and got out, going around the car to open the other door. Dean fell out into her arms and she picked him, taking his weight over her shoulder and shutting the car door behind him.

She walked across the long grass on the untended back yard and up the steps into the house.

* * *

He came to suddenly, his senses all on high alert. He felt the rope, binding his hands and shoulders and ankles to whatever he was sitting in, the cold of the air against his bare skin, heard the rush of water through pipes and a clanking from an air bubble in one of them. Smelled the raw coppery tang of blood, a lot of it, around him. He opened his eyes and looked around the dimly lit basement. Mike was sitting five feet from him, in another chair, stripped to the waist and bound, a blood-soaked dressing over one shoulder. He could hear the tramp's laboured breathing as he struggled to pull in air. The floor around them, between them, was rust-coloured and churned with footprints. A single low-wattage bulb cast a pool of light over them, leaving the rest of the room in varying shades of darkness.

In the corner, ahead of him, a short flight of stairs led to the ground floor, he guessed. Somewhere behind him there might a coal or wood chute.

He shivered slightly, the basement was cold and his shirt and jacket had been removed, he could see them on the top of a heap of clothes near the steps. His automatic lay on the table under the long narrow window.

"Mike." He looked at the other man. "Mike?"

"How'd you know my name?" Mike turned his head, his skin very pale under the grime.

"Heard your friend call you that in the bar." Dean looked at the wound on Mike's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Got me. Amber, the bartender, you know? She asked me if I wanted a date – I figured I'd have to pay for it, you know, but I sure as shit warn't expecting to pay with my life."

He lowered his voice. "She kissed me, down the diner, and I woke up here. Some kiss, man."

"Yeah, some kiss." Dean cringed inwardly at the memory of his own kiss. She'd played him pretty much perfectly. Making up the stuff about Charlene, a different target to focus on, together with the pretence of the crush … she'd diverted his attention from her completely, and she'd suckered him with the kiss. Sedative? Venom? Poison? Didn't matter. It had worked. Now he was trapped here.

He shook off the self-recriminations impatiently. What he had to think about was getting the hell out of here before he and Mike became bodies eight and nine discovered at the dump site. No one knew where he was. He couldn't expect any help from the outside.

He felt for give in the ropes holding him. They were synthetic, nylon, and nylon had a lot of stretch. He began to work on them, using his forearm as a lever against the chair's arm. The rope quickly began to rub at the skin, first reddening it, then chafing against it; he ignored the rapidly increasing discomfort and kept forcing them.

"Will Stan and your other friend try and find you?" He looked at Mike again, not liking the way the man kept fading out, his head dropping to his chest as if he couldn't stay awake.

"Huh? Oh. Doubt it. Stan said he was hopping the Dallas train tonight. Poke'll go with him, he don't like to ride alone and he's not what you'd call a brave guy."

"Awesome."

The sound of feet on the floor above and the screech of the trapdoor's ancient hinges stopped both the conversation and his efforts at loosening the rope. He watched two pairs of legs come down the steps, both female, both long.

"You shouldn't have taken him, Callie. He's not like the others, he might be missed."

"He won't. Not until it's too late anyway. He's a hunter." She looked at Dean coldly and walked to the table, picking up the gun. "Look."

"Doesn't necessarily follow that he's a hunter because he's carrying a gun, Callie. Lots of people do that."

"He was watching you, Amber. And he knew about the tramps." She tossed the gun back onto the table and walked toward him.

"And he's strong. And healthy. He'll last longer." She walked around behind him, letting her fingers slide over his shoulders, the nails scraping against his skin. He stared straight ahead, ignoring her touch the same way he was ignoring the stinging in his wrists.

Amber stood in front of him, looking at him thoughtfully. "Are you a hunter? Do you know what we are?"

"Bloodsuckers."

She smiled. "You don't, do you? Well, not many of us around in this country, I suppose that's a good thing."

Callie slid her arms around his neck from behind, pressing her cheek against his. "We're vetala."

The name rang a small, very faint bell. Jim had told him and Sam a story about a creature called a vetala. He and Dad had hunted one, and they'd met Caleb on that hunt. He couldn't remember the details. _What had they used to kill the damned thing? And why was he lucky enough to get two?_

"He doesn't know what we are, Callie," Amber said dismissively as she walked behind Mike, her fingernails picking at the dressing on his shoulder, pulling it away. "Have your breakfast. We have to get to work."

Dean had been watching Amber's fingers prising the waxy substance that covered Mike's wound apart when he felt the sharp teeth drive down into the meat at the join of neck and shoulder. It felt like he'd been stabbed with a barbeque fork and he sucked in a breath, setting his jaw against the bright pain. Her lips formed a seal around the wound, and his heartbeat was pumping his blood into her mouth.

Letting the pain wash through him, he worked on relaxing his muscles, feeling his pulse steady and slow down. Callie immediately lifted her mouth and bit him again, this time sucking the blood strongly.

He was starting to feel dizzy when she stopped, licking over and around the wound before putting a thick dressing over it. Something in the saliva, he wondered hazily? To coagulate the blood or force the skin to adhere to itself? The room canted sharply as his head fell to one side, too tired to lift it.

Through half-closed eyes, he watched them go back up the steps, heard the screech of the hinges as the trapdoor opened and closed again. Then his eyes fluttered shut and he floated for a while in between sleep and wakefulness, in a grey limbo where nothing much mattered.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes, registering that the light had changed, coming in the windows on the other side of the basement now. _Fuck_. He'd lost hours. He looked down at the ropes and started pulling against them, the effort costing a lot more now.

_What had Jim said about that hunt?_ Dad had been the bait, he remembered that. And the vetala had taken him. They were strong. Yeah, well he figured that out given that he was down here and last time he'd been awake and himself, he'd been in the car. Took some strength to get him down here without the grazes and bruises of being dragged. Caleb had … his face screwed up involuntarily as he tried to force the memory of Jim's telling back.

Caleb had … _shot_ it, he remembered suddenly. A long distance shot from the roof of another building, Jim had told them. He remembered the admiration in the priest's voice at the feat. So … if he could get to his gun, he could take them both.

"Mike? You still there, man?" He looked over at the other man. Mike's head was bowed, chin resting against his chest. A long rivulet of blood had leaked out from under the dressing and made a line down one side of his bare chest, pooling and soaking into his pants.

Dean stopped working the rope for a moment and stared at Mike's chest, unable to tell if it was still moving. His skin was a waxy white, a colour Dean usually associated with corpses.

"MIKE!"

Mike raised his head a little, his eyes slits. "Waa?"

"Stay with me, okay?" Dean looked around. "We're gonna get out of this, but you gotta stay with me."

"Yeah, sho'." His head dropped lower again.

_Crap_. He worked harder on the ropes, his eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched against the pain as the ropes started to burn through the raw flesh. Not much more to go, he thought, he could almost get the thumb joint through.

He was just about ready to scream when he heard the footsteps over the floorboards above him again. Mike wouldn't last through another feeding.

The trapdoor opened, the hinges shrieking, and Dean yanked his right hand free of the binding, the blood from his wrist helping to slide it out. He turned to his left, his fingers feverishly working at the knots that were holding his arm in place.

"Mike!"

Dean's head snapped up as he saw Stan coming down the stairs, doubled over, his face shocked, pale eyes wide as he looked around the basement, his gaze lingering on his friend, stuttering away from Mike to look at Dean.

"Stan, get over here, cut me loose," Dean said quickly. Stan turned and half-ran to him, pulling at the knots that held the rope around his shoulders. With his left hand and shoulders free, Dean bent and untied his ankles, jerking his head toward to the other chair.

"Get Mike out of the ropes. We don't have much time." One ankle was free, he worked on the other one. "How the hell did you find us?"

Stan glanced at him. "Poke and me, we were watching from down the road, when Mike walked off with that Amber girl. We saw you go past a bit later with the other one. We cut over to the dump site, across the tracks, I just figured that wherever they were living it had to be close to there, then we saw your car, coming down the road and followed you to the house." He glanced at the bloody dressing on Dean's shoulder. "I'm sorry we took so long to come in – Poke was frightened, and I was too … even after they left this morning. I sent Poke back to the yard. He's waiting for us there."

Dean grinned at him. "Way better late than never, Stan. Way better."

"Yeah."

He wanted to be out of here, all of them, as fast as possible. The bartender, Amber, started her shift at seven, she could be back anytime to get ready for it. He stood up, and felt himself swaying, vertigo clouding his vision. Shutting his eyes, he waited for it to clear, taking deep breaths.

He opened his eyes as the dizziness receded, and had turned to see how Stan was doing with Mike, when he heard a noise in the house above them. Stan was kneeling next to Mike's legs, undoing the ropes that bound his ankles to the chair and his head snapped up when they heard the click-click of heeled footsteps crossing the floor above them, getting louder as they approached the trapdoor.

Dean straightened up. "Stan, hide somewhere."

"But Mike –"

"I'll take care of it." He looked up, tracking the footsteps over them to the trapdoor. "Get out of sight!"

The trapdoor began to lift, the hinges wailing and he walked fast to the table, picking up the automatic and moving so that he stood in between the two chairs, where he would have the clearest line of sight.

Amber came down the stairs unhurriedly, and stopped at the bottom, looking at Dean.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the hunter." She smiled at him. "You have been busy today."

He lined up the sight over her chest and fired, absorbing the recoil in his wrist and elbow, firing steadily as she walked toward him. Her forward progress was somewhat slowed by the impacts of the 9mm bullets, but not by much, he thought, taking a couple of steps back as she continued to advance. It wasn't until the clip was empty that he lowered the gun, looking at the grouping of holes in her chest and realising that more was needed than just bullets.

She took the last two strides toward him very fast, and her hands closed over his wrists, the fingers like talons, driving into the tendons. The Colt fell to the floor and she shifted her grip, lifting and throwing him across the basement to the far wall.

He hit the floor hard, his breath driven from his lungs, and rolled half onto his back, trying to pull in more air as he watched her striding across to him. If she got her hands on him again, it would be over. She was terrifying strong, her grip like a vice. He got a knee under himself and started to straighten, bracing himself against the wall beside him.

Amber had almost reached him when Stan came out of his hiding place, a short, slim knife in one hand. Waiting until she'd passed him, he followed her, and when she slowed, he ran forward, the tip of the knife held low and angled upwards, his weight behind it. It slid with remarkably little resistance through her back, between the ribs, and pierced her heart.

Dean stared up as her face elongated suddenly in front of him, the mouth appearing to stretch, her pupils stretching up and narrowing into slits. Her skin darkened, crazing into lines then fissures and she fell at his feet, her body drawing in and blackening.

He looked at Stan, standing behind her, the knife still gripped at the upward angle that had pierced her.

"What the hell is that?" Dean looked at the knife.

"Uh, it's my knife," Stan said vaguely, unable to take his eyes from the corpse on the floor.

"Can I see it?" He stepped over Amber's body and looked at the knife. It was regular flatware, the tip pointed but not sharp, the edge smooth for spreading. He wiped it clean, seeing the brightness of the metal, feeling the weight.

"This real silver?"

"Yeah," Stan said, looking at him uncertainly. "From my grandmother's set."

"Awesome." Dean nodded in satisfaction. Silver. "I need to borrow this for a while, Stan." He looked back at Stan's face, taking in the other man's bewildered expression. "Takes silver to the heart to kill them."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Stan said. He handed over the knife and turned around, heading back to Mike's chair.

Dean looked at his watch. Six-thirty. Callie would get concerned when Amber didn't show up for work. She'd come here.

And he'd kill her.

Mike had slumped forward as Stan finished untying him, and Dean walked over to him, feeling for a pulse at the carotid artery. It was there, but slow. He looked at the dressing over the wound in his shoulder, peeling it back carefully. The blood flow had slowed as well. There were so many punctures in the artery that whatever the bitches used to hold the flesh together wasn't working well anymore. He looked around the room, seeing the tray of dressings on a small table beside the steps. Walking fast, he picked out three of them, ripping the sterilised packs open and setting them over the wound until it was completely covered.

"Dean, we gotta get Mike to a hospital, he's lost too much blood." Stan looked from his friend to the hunter worriedly.

"We will, as soon as the other one gets here and I kill her," Dean told him, walking to the pile of clothing and retrieving his tee shirt, long-sleeved shirt and coat, pulling them on carefully over the taped-down dressing on his shoulder. He gestured to the pile.

"Get some clothes for Mike from there, Stan, a lotta layers. We gotta keep him warm. Shock'll kill him as easily as the blood loss will."

Stan walked to the pile, pulling out a number of shirts that would fit and finding Mike's long coat under them. He began to dress his friend, Mike's unconscious state not helping, careful not to dislodge the fresh dressings.

Dean walked to the body and picked it up, his nose wrinkling up with distaste. He wanted Callie off guard and in shock when she came down the steps, and seeing her sister before anything else would probably do that nicely. He put Amber's body into the chair he'd been bound to, and used the ropes to tie her upright, dragging the chair closer to Mike.

* * *

At seven-fifteen he heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house, and smiled a little to himself. Monsters. So predictable. The front door slammed as Callie ran into the house, calling her sister's name. They could hear her footsteps, running from room to room by the sounds, before she finally came to the trapdoor that now stood open.

Dean waited under the steps, listening as she hesitated at the top.

"Amber?" she called out in a breathy whisper. If he'd been feeling less pissed by their attempts to kill him, and all the men they had killed, he'd almost have felt sorry for her, hearing the fear and doubt in that single word.

She started down the steps slowly, bending over to see into the basement as she came down. On the bottom step she stopped, staring at the blackened body in the chair in front of her.

"NO-OOO!" Her voice rose like a banshee's, filling the room. She ran to the chair, lifting her sister's head from where it lolled against her chest, neither seeing nor hearing Dean come out from under the stairs, walk toward her.

He must have made some noise, he thought later, because she turned as quickly as a snake as he was about to thrust the knife into her back, her hands flashing out to grab the knife and his wrist.

Snatching the hand that had touched the silver back with a furious hiss, her fingers drove like nails into the tendons of his arm and he swung around, shifting his weight as he slammed his left fist into her face, feeling her nose break under his knuckles. She let him go, stumbling backwards, both hands rising as her blood filled her nose and mouth and he lunged for her, dodging a wildly swinging arm, Stan's knife angled upward, punching through her skin, sliding under the bone. He grabbed her shoulder, holding her against him as he pushed the knife to the hilt and twisted it sharply, watching her eyes widen, the pupils slitting like a cat's. Her mouth opened wide, blood spilling down over her chin and the strange forked fangs descended over her front teeth. She convulsed once under his hand, her skin greying and fracturing as her sister's had done and she fell forward, dragging the knife with her as he let her go.

He watched her skin blacken and shrivel slightly around the bones, her limbs drawing in, then leaned over and pulled the knife from her chest.

"That's what you get when you mess with hunters, bitch," he said, his tone conversational, and underlaid by relief. Wiping the blade of the knife on her clothes, he straightened up, letting out a long exhale and with it, the tension of the last few hours.

Stan and Mike were in the car, and Stan had been right, Mike needed the hospital and fast. He ran up the steps, throwing the trapdoor back down and went out the back door. The two men were in the backseat of the Impala, Mike lying along the seat, Stan hunkered down over him.

"Ya kill her?" Stan shifted up as Dean opened the driver's side door.

"Yep." He started the engine, reversing out of the shed and onto the grass, pointing the nose of the car at the driveway.

"So it's all over?" Stan looked down at Mike.

"Yeah," he said, thinking to himself, no. It wouldn't ever be over. There would always be something to hunt, something that fed off people and wasn't supposed to be here. He hit the accelerator and the car fishtailed slightly on the gravel as they roared down the road toward town.

* * *

Dean walked up the steps to the county hospital, stopping at the front desk to ask for directions to the intensive care ward. He went up the stairs to the second floor, following the signs and stopped at the doorway, seeing two men in there, neither of whom were familiar. He'd turned and taken a step away from the ward when Stan called out.

"Dean."

Turning back, he felt his brows lift as he looked harder at them. Both had showered and shaved, Stan wearing a cheap but clean dark blue suit, Mike still in the pale green hospital gown, tubes running from a bag of red liquid into his arm but a half-grin on his face.

"What'd the docs say?" he asked, walking in and over to the bed and stopping at the end. He looked from one to the other, unable to take in the difference in them.

"Another day or two, and I'll be out," Mike told him diffidently. "The cops were here too."

Stan smiled at him. "We were unconscious for most of it, don't know what happened."

Dean's mouth quirked up as he nodded in acknowledgement.

"This doesn't seem much like private eye work," Stan said, one brow lifted quizzically.

"No," Dean agreed. "I don't get paid." He looked at the suit. "You going for that job in New Mexico?"

Stan's head ducked slightly as he shrugged. "Might now."

"Well, good luck," Dean said.

"Yeah, you too," Mike told him. "And thanks."

Nodding a little uncomfortably, he turned around, heading for the door then slowed, glancing back before he reached the hall. Both men seemed different, not just the clean clothes and tidy up, he thought. More involved maybe, in life. With life. Stan might've been more confident since killing a monster on his own. He wasn't sure. He thought that maybe the two of them might stop their wandering and find a place to stay. Maybe not. Sometimes it took more than one traumatic event to change a lifetime's habits.

He turned away and walked down the corridor for the stairs. They were alive, that was what counted. He'd looked up vetalas using the town's library computer before he'd come here. There wasn't much. From India, the small of amount of information on them said. He'd have to give his father the extra information about them to update the journal when they caught up with each other. According to the mythology surrounding them, vetalas usually hunted as a pair.

* * *

At the motel, he packed up his duffle and gear bag, checking that everything was in it. Better add a silver knife to the inventory, he thought absently.

Taking the bags out to the car, he tossed them into the backseat, and returned the room key to the office. He was walking back across the lot when his phone rang.

"Yeah?"

"Dean, it's Jim." Jim's voice was hard and tight. "Your dad's been hurt, get up here now."

"What? Jim, slow down. What happened?" Dean felt his heart give a double-beat as fear coursed through his veins.

"Just get here as fast as you can." Jim hesitated for a moment. "It's bad, he needs you."

"Gimme the address." He reached into the car window and grabbed a pen, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear as he wrote it down on his arm. "I'm leaving now."

He put the phone back in his pocket and got into the car, starting the engine and twisting around to reverse out of the lot, his mind clear and calm, focussed completely on getting out of Kirbyville, and heading north.

* * *

_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear._

_~ Ambrose Redmoon_


	27. Chapter 27 Evil Walks Behind You

**Chapter 27 Evil Walks Behind You**

* * *

_Now o'er the one-half world  
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse  
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates  
Pale Hecate's offerings._

_~ Macbeth_

* * *

_**2003. Boston, Massachusetts.**_

Jim Murphy raised his head and let it roll back, easing the tension that threaded through the muscles of his neck. There was no question of what was going on here. No doubt at all.

"Uh, Father … how did you know the deceased?" The coroner looked at the priest standing beside the morgue drawer.

Jim turned to him, lifting the cotton sheet over the victim's face again. "She was a member of my parish."

It was usually enough to give him access, and to keep the questions to a minimum. He turned from the sliding tray and walked over to the man.

"What's the official cause of death?"

Ralph Henderson, one of the many coroners in Suffolk County, shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "We haven't listed one. Basically her internal organs were eaten by insects, but it's impossible. Couldn't have happened. I've had every entomologist from the Society of Natural History, Harvard and Cambridge down here to look at the body, and the only thing they all agreed on was that it was impossible for the insects found in the body to kill that woman." He turned to the bench beside him, gesturing at the row of small jars that stood along the edge. "It was impossible for those insects to even be found inside of her."

"Six different types of insects. None of them are carnivorous, apparently. There's no way any of them could've gotten into her stomach, unless she swallowed them alive, and even if she had, they would have died, not eaten their way out."

Jim looked at the jars. "Did the entomologists say if any of these were rare?"

"No. All common to the area, found in any park, wild area or garden in Boston."

"Helpful." Jim rubbed an eyebrow.

"Yeah, not." Ralph turned away. "Last week, I had a body in here that spontaneously combusted. Burned to a pile of ash right in his own living room, four witnesses." He shook his head. "Damned if I know what's going on."

Jim stared at the floor. Unfortunately, he did. And he was going to need help.

* * *

"John?"

"Jim, been a while," John said softly, walking to the bathroom and closing the door. They'd gotten into Pikeville an hour ago, and Dean was an unmoving lump beneath the covers.

"Yeah, listen, I'm in Boston and I need some help." He looked at the file in front of him on the table. "Four people murdered in the last three weeks. Not one that the coroner's office is comfortable with giving an official cause of death on the forms. I'm thinking witchcraft."

"Witchcraft?"

"Yeah. And it's a powerful witch, John. The spells are major league, definitely demon-assisted. There's nothing that's connecting the victims, so whatever it is, it doesn't seem to be personally motivated, maybe sacrifices."

John stared at the wall. They'd been looking for a powerful witch for some time, hoping to get more information on the demons through him or her. Every practitioner of black magic drew their powers from Hell, in one way or another, but only the big players could control the demons to do their bidding. He rubbed his jaw, working out times and distances.

"I'm in Kentucky, Jim. It'll take me at least sixteen hours, driving straight through." He'd need a couple of hours sleep first, he thought. He thought about the Texas case he and his son had been on their way to check out.

"I'll be there tomorrow night, late. Give me the address."

When he had the details, he hung up, and crossed to the second bed, stripping off and lying down. Dean could handle the other case. He knew what he was doing and working on his own might help temper the streak of recklessness that showed up from time to time.

Sam had been gone for a little over twelve months, and Dean had found some way to accept it, to deal with it, at least most of the time. After his first taste of a world-class hangover, he'd been more circumspect with alcohol, although there'd been a couple of nights John'd had to go hunting through the bars and back alleys for his son, finding him wandering aimlessly around or semi-conscious, and carrying or dragging him back to the motel. He wasn't sure if those occasions had been an attempt to drown his feelings, or to just cut loose from the tensions of the cases they'd worked on, and he didn't know how to ask these days. His oldest son had never been overly demonstrative with his feelings, never been one to ask for help, or show a sign of weakness if he could help it. Now, his face would become shuttered and his eyes blank if he was questioned about anything other than what they were working on.

* * *

By seven, John was crossing the state line into West Virginia, coffee and breakfast a distant memory, and running through his mental database of everything he knew, had read or heard about the practice of the magicians of the Left-hand path.

There were three broad categories. The untalented, those who wanted but had no means of gaining power unless they made a deal and sold their souls. The talented but untrained, who generally ended up biting off more than they could chew and were killed by the forces they sought to control long before they could do any lasting harm to anyone but themselves. And the talented and trained, a whole different level, who could wield the elemental forces of nature and the demons of Hell with equal skill and knowledge and who were, generally speaking, more concerned with changing the world than taking petty revenge or seeking personal gain.

He and Jim had been trying to find such a practitioner for several years, both for the information of Hell's demonologies, and for the summoning spells used to control the demons. There weren't many practising in this country, and the few who were took a lot of care and trouble to remain well-nigh invisible, choosing their victims from the masses who would not be missed or noted if they disappeared.

Most of the time the only witches they'd come across were the first category. The crimes were always for personal benefit and the witches were invariably surprised when told the price they'd paid for the new car or the new appearance. Jim had run into a couple from the second category, but only after they'd self-destructed. Neither had ever seen or met a witch from the third category.

He wasn't sure if they'd be able to sufficiently coerce a true adept into giving them what they wanted. So perhaps it was just as well they'd never found any. But between the ranks of apprentice and adept there were many shades and all they needed was a witch with sufficient knowledge and training to know what they needed, but not quite enough to be able to get out of the traps they could set. He smiled humourlessly to himself. A tall order.

* * *

He pulled into the street just after midnight, the truck moving slowly as he scanned the buildings for the hotel whose address Jim had given him. It was near the end, and he pulled into a vacant parking spot across the road, turning the engine off and leaning his head against the wheel for a moment. Two hours sleep in forty-eight was pushing it. He hadn't thought of himself as a man who was getting older, but clearly he was.

He got out and pulled his gear from the back, crossing the street and opening the door of the hotel, exhaustion hitting him as he felt the warmth inside the lobby. He had the room number and he walked to the elevator, riding up to the sixth floor. The building was quiet and his knock on Jim's door seemed very loud to him in the silent corridor.

Jim opened the door and let him in, checking the corridor both ways before closing and relocking the door. John looked around the room, his brows rising and his tiredness falling away as he saw the protective symbols and circles that the priest had drawn over the walls, windows and floor. On the table a small bronze brazier burned, the pale lavender smoke rising to the ceiling, the room filled with a scent reminiscent of burning leaves in damp woodland, and containing a bitter undertaste that John didn't recognise. In the corners of the room, there were bowls of vinegar and salt, adding another layer of pungency to the small area.

Jim saw the expression and nodded. "I know what it looks like. And yeah, I'm worried."

He walked to the table and lifted the brazier, moving it to the counter of the kitchenette in the corner, and turning to lift several files onto the table in its place.

"This morning, when I woke up, the room was filled with flies, John. And I mean filled with them, wall to wall, crawling and flying over everything." He sat down at the table and looked up at his friend. "They vanished a moment later, but I know what I saw."

"Hallucination?" John pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. Jim gestured to the kitchenette, and he turned his head to look. On the counter, next to the brazier, a saucer was filled with dead flies.

"I don't think so."

"So … dealing with a real adept then."

Jim looked at him and nodded slowly. "Question is, how are we going to find him before he finds us?"

"Might be he already found you."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Jim looked down at the files. "I've been to the coroner's office and to the homes of the victims. That's all."

John frowned, and opened the files, turning the pages slowly, looking for anything to leap out at him. There were a dozen things that did, ranging from the way the victims had died to almost unintelligible remarks on both the police and coroner's reports, long-winded explanations that concluded nothing. Among the bizarre details, his attention was snagged by one line and he looked up at his friend.

"The combustion victim worked for an occult shop?"

Jim nodded. "I was going to have a look at it in the morning. He only worked there for a few months, but it might be that he was picked because of the connection."

"He's the first victim. If he offended someone in there, it might be why." John closed the file and went back over the other three files.

"Yeah, that's what crossed my mind."

"How good a look did you get on the homes of these?"

"Very thorough on the woman eaten by insects. And the combustion guy." He leaned over and looked at the other two. "The girl who drowned … did you read the reports?"

John skipped through the file. "Found in the shower, lungs filled with …,"

He looked up at Jim. "Sea water? So she could have been taken down to the bay and drowned there and the body staged to look like an inexplicable drowning?"

"That's what the police thought, at first. I couldn't get into her apartment because they were in there for a long time, and went over it with a fine toothed comb. Everything was locked from the inside, chain on, alarm on, the whole deal." Jim looked down at the file. "But keep reading, because it gets a lot better."

John looked down and read through the detailed analyses. Jim watched as his dark brows drew together and nodded.

"Yeah. The sea water was oceanic. Filled with a particular type of plankton, which only lives in the Southern Ocean, at a depth of around five hundred feet." He leaned back in his chair, scratching at the close-cropped beard along his jaw. "Now, either the victim was whipped off to the Southern hemisphere, and pushed five hundred feet under the surface, or the water was brought there and somehow dumped into her lungs while she was taking a shower. No residue in the sinks in the apartment. No tub. But the plankton and invertebrates were right through her bronchial tubes, in her nasal and sinus passages, as if she'd been submerged."

John closed the file and opened the last one. "What's the order? Combustion guy first?"

"Drowning second. The insect woman was the latest, she was found yesterday."

"Got anything to drink here, Jim?" John massaged his closed eyelids with his fingertips.

"No. I got some advice from an old friend about dealing with this level of witchcraft, and she told me to stay completely dry, to wash often, to wear clean clothes, to make sure that any personal physical material I lose is burned – right down to cleaning out the hairbrush every morning and using a new toothbrush every day."

John stared at him, eyes wide. "You're kidding."

"Not even remotely. Psychic attack is dependent partly on the victim. A clear head, a clean body, are much harder to target, much harder to affect. So we're off the sauce for the duration, and we need to be completely obsessive-compulsive about making sure that not a single hair, fibre, cell scraping, finger nail or drop of any body fluid leaves this room."

He gestured at the saucer of dead flies. "That's what this adept could bring without any of those things. Think of what he or she could do with them."

John nodded slowly. "Alright. I need a get a room myself. And get some sleep."

"Yes. Being physically healthy is important for our defence as well. I got you the next room when you said you were coming." Jim gestured to the adjoining internal door. "I've already done the protection on it, you just need to make sure that you're as well-guarded as you can be."

He got up and walked to the bag that sat on the bed, pulling out a small drawstring bag made of silk and undoing it. He pulled out a long silver chain, with a small pendant hanging from it, and handed it to John.

"Wear it all the time." Jim pulled his collar aside to show an identical pendant lying against the base of his throat.

John took the chain and laid the pendant against his palm. It was an intricately knotted triangle, three strands of metal, silver, copper and gold interwoven in an ancient symbol.

"A triquetra?"

"Protection. Body, mind and soul united in harmony against anything that might threaten them."

Shrugging, John slipped the chain over his head, feeling the metal cool against his skin at first, then warming rapidly until he could barely discern it. He looked up.

"So I guess the first thing is a shower."

"And sleep." Jim nodded, and gestured to the files. "We'll check out the apartment of the girl and the occult shop tomorrow. And the fourth victim's apartment."

John looked down at the file. "What did the fourth victim die of?"

"Nothing." Jim felt his hand creep to the pendant under his shirt. "He was in perfect physical condition. The autopsy was extremely comprehensive. There was no reason at all to cause his heart to stop, no damage, no disease, nothing."

* * *

The room was identical to Jim's, down to the protection laid right across it. John put his bags on the end of the bed and undressed, looking at his clothes for a moment. They were far from clean, and no doubt covered in his genetic material. He could get them washed easily enough tomorrow, but for tonight, he'd have to seal them in something. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, scrubbing himself thoroughly, washing his hair, pulling out a new razor to shave as closely as possible. When his skin was stinging and red, he stepped out and dried himself, checking finger and toe nails for any snags that could break off without him knowing. He cleaned the shower and sink drains, making a pile of the detritus that'd caught in them and burning it with the aid of a squirt of butane. It felt narcissistic, but that Jim was taking this all so seriously was enough for him.

The bed was clean and soft, and he sank into sleep almost immediately. He'd hung the dreamcatcher over the bed as an additional protection, against anything unfriendly coming his way through the night. It had held off Yellow-Eye's incursions into his subconscious for the last few years, he thought it would hold off a witch's attempts.

* * *

"Malleus Maleficarum."

Jim looked up at the beautifully enunciated and eloquent tenor voice beside him. The owner was equally elegant in personage, a tall man, with aquiline features framed by a fall of long blonde hair, gathered artfully at the nape of his neck by a black velvet ribbon. He wore a plain black silk shirt over charcoal grey pants, both garments immaculately tailored and expensive, Jim thought, noting the detail automatically.

"The Hammer of the Witch." The man turned to Jim, his gaze dropping fleetingly and rising again, a small smile curving the full, red lips. "I would have thought that the Church would have sufficient copies to hand out, Father."

Jim looked down at the book in his hands. "Perhaps they have. This seems to be an older copy."

"Yes, you have a good eye. It was published in 1532 by a German publishing house. The illustrations were hand touched in gold several years after publication, I was told." The man sighed softly, a small wry smile playing over his lips. "Of course, the authors were rather misguided. The book is based upon an older work, the _Formicarus_ by Johannes Nider. I'm not sure what their upbringing was like, but they were all on the misogynistic side."

He looked at Jim, humour glinting in the dark brown eyes. "Women are, most generally, delightful creatures, but I don't think the authors knew too many on a personal level if they thought they were more carnally inclined than men, or for that matter, more interested in power. I haven't seen much evidence of either in my personal experience."

Jim shrugged. "I'll have to take your word for that."

"Justin Reinhart." The man extended his hand, the skin smooth and pale, the fingers long and with the particular fluid grace that proclaims an artist or musician. Jim looked down at it for a moment, then grasped it with his own.

"Jim Murphy." He felt a strange sensation, fleeting, but definite, as if a nail had run down his palm, although he could see that his palm was pressed close against Reinhart's own.

"Curiosity is one of my vices, Father, and I'm very curious indeed to know what you're looking for in a store that caters to those most decidedly not of a religious background?"

Jim smiled. "Information primarily."

"Perhaps I can help?" Reinhart turned slowly, gesturing at the tightly packed shelves surrounding them. "This is the stock I hold for the public interest. But for true aficionados, or those who seek knowledge of a more profound nature, I have several storerooms below, with more … let us say … esoteric works." He looked back at Jim, one eyebrow slightly raised. "What is the precise nature of the information you are looking for?"

John walked slowly over to them, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you a specialist in occult knowledge, Mr Reinhart?"

Jim glanced back. Reinhart turned to look at John, their eyes almost meeting on a level, Reinhart an inch or two above John's height.

"I am, Mr -?"

"Winchester. John." He held his hand out reluctantly, and felt the strength in the wiry grip of the other man.

"Well, Mr Winchester, I have degrees in Theology, Anthropology and a PhD in Parapsychology. I've studied the esoteric both Eastern and Western for more than twenty years. As I told your friend, curiosity is my biggest motivator, and it has led me down the path for truth. I've been attempting to correlate findings to establish if the nature of magic is actually electro-magnetic, as a universal driver."

"Having any luck?" John glanced at Jim, one brow cocked.

Reinhart laughed. "Not much. It's near impossible to find suitable test subjects, and those that do show any signs of being able to tap into the incredible powers of the human mind cannot do so under laboratory conditions."

"In other words, the psychics can't perform on command?"

"Precisely." Reinhart looked from John to Jim. "Magic, as the myths and legends would have it, is remarkably unattainable. One cannot, for example, create something from nothing. But there is certainly sufficient evidence for the existence of human abilities that can be mistaken for magic. Arthur C Clarke said it most concisely, I believe - _any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic_ – and I happen to agree with him. It doesn't matter if a spell is worked by the power of electricity or by the power of angels, so long as it works, after all."

"So you're not a believer, really, in the things you sell?" Jim looked around the store.

"Oh I believe in many things, but belief is different from knowing something. I know that people have been able to do extraordinary things, I don't need to believe in it."

John looked down for a moment, then back to Reinhart. "Do you believe in witches, Mr Reinhart?"

Reinhart's expression smoothed as he inclined his head to one side. "I believe that with sufficient belief and a suitably symbolic instruction, the subconscious mind of certain people can affect the reality of this plane, Mr Winchester."

"Certain people?" Jim asked diffidently.

"Not everyone has access to the power of their own minds," Reinhart spoke quietly as another customer entered the store. "But those who do, can transform reality with training."

He looked at the middle-aged woman who was browsing the tables in the centre of the room, his voice becoming much quieter although it remained clear. "This woman here, she is unhappy, uncertain of what she wants, uncertain of how to get it even if she could divine what it was." He looked at Jim. "Reading her thus is not magic, not even telepathy, just a plain understanding of body language and the millions of subtle and not-so-subtle hints that we all project to everyone all the time."

Jim pulled a photograph from his pocket, handing it to Reinhart. "This man worked for you, Mr Reinhart?"

Reinhart took the picture, lifting it and studying the features of the face. "Yes, this is Ronald Mitchell." He looked at Jim. "He died a few weeks ago, Father, a terrible accident, the police said."

Jim searched his face. "He was murdered, Mr Reinhart."

"Murdered?" Reinhart's face registered shock and disbelief. "That's not … the police said it was an accident." He looked from Jim to John.

"What were Ronald's duties here?" John looked around.

Reinhart looked back at the photograph in his hand, and handed it back to Jim. "He'd just started, he was a student, studying theology and interested in the mythology of religion and the occult." He made a small gesture to the shelves. "I told him it was a field of study that wasn't respected but he wanted to pursue it. He stacked the shelves, cleaned, did some shifts on the register." He looked back to Jim. "He was helping me to catalogue the books I have downstairs, into a comprehensive library. Some of them are quite old and he'd done his undergraduate work in Art History, and had some experience in restoration work. That was really why I hired him."

"Did he have any altercations with your customers?"

Reinhart frowned. "No, none that I saw. He was a very quiet man, Father. I can't imagine him saying or doing anything that could have -," he paused for a moment, "that could have resulted in him being killed."

John nodded slowly. "I think we'd like to take a look at your stock, Mr Reinhart."

Reinhart nodded. "I close the shop in half an hour. If you can return later this evening, I'd be happy to show what I've managed to collect, and perhaps help with the information you're looking for."

He turned as a tall, slender young man came through the door from the back of the shop. John and Jim turned as well. The man was really a teenager, John thought, maybe seventeen or eighteen, dark blonde combed back from a finely sculpted face, large blue eyes looking worriedly now at Reinhart.

"Remy, these gentleman will be joining us later to look at the library." Reinhart turned to John. "What time would suit you?"

"Eight o'clock would be fine with us."

"Eight o'clock it is then." He bowed his head. "Please excuse me, I have a few things to finish before I shut."

Jim nodded, replacing the book in his hands on the shelf. He turned and followed John out of the store.

* * *

"That was … interesting." John sat in the truck, behind the wheel, tapping his fingers restlessly against the smooth dark leather.

"Very." Jim leaned back in the passenger seat. "A trap? Or genuine scholar, do you think?"

"I don't know. But we'll go in as if it's a trap, and see what he has down there." He looked over at Jim. "Did you get any information about subduing or being able to bind a witch of that power?"

"Two things. Copper wire, which coincidentally may be related to Reinhart's belief in the electromagnetic nature of magic, copper can shield and disrupt electromagnetic energy. And black and red silk ribbon, blessed by a priest and soaked in holy water, intertwined with the wire."

John sighed. "So we're using a spell to bind them?"

"In a manner of speaking." Jim smiled at the uneasy expression on John's face. "If you think about it, all prayers and wishes, even self-help and hypnosis, are spells. They are a way to reach the subconscious mind to help us get what we want."

"I guess." He shrugged. "Seems like the more we do this job, the more we become like the monsters."

Jim frowned. "No. Not really. We might use the same tools. We might need to kill. But we're still protecting those who cannot protect themselves, John."

"Yeah." He started the engine. "Where was the drowned girl's apartment?"

* * *

John grimaced slightly at the bitter taste of the coffee, his ninth that day. They'd found absolutely nothing in either of the second or third victim's apartments. No hex signs, no marks or sigils or symbols, no indication that either had any connection with anything to do with witchcraft or any aspect of the occult. The drowned girl had a crystal hanging in one window, where it would catch the morning light. That was it.

He wondered again at the advisability of going to see the occultist, Reinhart, at his store tonight. So far, the man was the only suspect they had but he seemed more like a dabbler than what either of them had imagined a true adept to be like.

The store could be a front, a means of gaining students or victims or … or it could just be the way a man who studied a field that was laughed at academically paid the bills. His shock at Ronald Mitchell's death had seemed genuine. His brows drew together as he remembered something else, barely an impression.

"Jim, what was your impression of the relationship between Reinhart and the boy in the store?"

Jim closed his eyes, thinking back to the moment when the young man had entered the room, replaying the seemingly innocuous interaction between them. His brow creased.

"Just an impression, but I got the feeling of subservience."

"Yeah." John finished his coffee. "What do you make of that?"

"I don't know. Reinhart has a powerful personality. He would dominate in any unequal relationship, I think."

"Maybe." John couldn't quite nail what his feeling had been, watching the slight boy's expression as he'd looked at the store owner. There had been a sense of subservience, but also something more … more personal.

He sighed. They'd know soon enough, he thought.

* * *

At eight o'clock, they stood in front of the store, and heard the locks on the door being undone. Remy opened the door, standing aside for them to enter, then closing it and relocking it behind them.

John turned as the young man walked past them, head bowed as he led them to the door at the back of the shop.

"Have you worked here long?"

He jumped and looked back over his shoulder. "A couple of weeks."

His accent was mixed, the languid drawl of the south mixed with an odd inflection. John flicked a glance at Jim.

"You're from New Orleans, Remy?" Jim lengthened his stride slightly.

"Yes." Remy opened the door and stood stiffly beside it, waiting for them to precede him through it.

"Are you a student?" John stopped beside as Jim walked through, looking at his face.

Remy lifted his gaze to the older man, seeming to straighten slightly. "Yes, I was studying at the seminary, and realised that religion didn't hold the answers I was looking for. I moved here at the beginning of term."

John walked past him and waited as he came through and closed and locked the door behind them.

"What do you think of your boss?" Jim looked around the small room they stood in, lined floor to ceiling with shelving packed with books and boxes of the items that the store sold.

"He's an amazing teacher," Remy said simply. "His theory of the connections between religion, magic and science is a fascinating field of study."

John raised an eyebrow at Jim and they followed Remy through a second door at the rear of the room, this one opening onto a flight of steps that led down into the basement under the building.

"Difficult to prove, though."

"Well, not really. It's more that what the establishment will accept as proof isn't possible in this field." Remy walked down the stairs. "They want repeated tests done under stringent conditions, and unfortunately it ignores the fact that the human imagination, the mind, which operates on the power of belief, cannot function under those conditions. And it's all moot anyway since by the very act of testing, we change what we discover."

They entered the basement, which was lit by several overhead bulbs and a number of standing lamps, shedding a warm light over the piles of books that were stacked on tables, chairs and filled the shelving that lined the walls.

Reinhart was standing under one of the lights, holding a book, his pale hair appearing almost silver. He turned as they entered, a smile widening his mouth.

"Right on time. I do like punctuality."

Beside him, a young woman looked up as well. She was tall, and thin, long dark honey-blonde hair loose down her back, a strong oval shaped face framed by it. She wore a simple suit in navy, which deepened the colour of her hazel eyes, and she looked slightly surprised by their appearance, glancing at the man next to her.

"Ms Hawkins, permit me to introduce you to Father Jim Murphy, and John Winchester. They are also very interested in the lore and mythology of witchcraft."

She nodded to them, walking across to Jim, her hand extended. "Annie Hawkins."

"How do you do, Ms Hawkins?" Jim took her hand and hid his surprise at the strength in her fingers. She turned to John and he took her hand, feeling the calluses at the base of her fingers.

"Now, what would like to know?" Reinhart gestured expansively at the shelves.

* * *

Shortly after midnight they returned to the hotel.

John looked at the books Reinhart had given them, piled on the table. A selection of works from the Dark Ages and before, more accurate than the later works that had been written in the confusing and frightening times of the Reformation and the slow but sure insistence on science in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

"_Tredecim Hereses_." He read the title out loud, picking it up.

Jim glanced up at him. "Thirteen Heresies?"

"Apparently so." John frowned as he looked through the book. "Raising the dead, controlling demons." He looked at Jim. "It's all here."

The knock on the door startled both of them and John moved fast across the room, his automatic in his hand as he came up to the hinge-side. Jim walked over and unlocked the door, opening it slightly and letting out a long exhale as he saw their visitor. He opened the door and Annie walked in, turning to check behind the door as she did, her eyes narrowing a little as she saw John looking at her.

"Sorry to barge in on you." She turned back to Jim. "I've heard of you."

Jim raised his eyebrows slightly. "Have you?"

"Pastor Jim." She shrugged. "Everyone knows you, it was nice to finally meet you."

John walked behind her as Jim closed and locked the door. "You're a hunter?"

She nodded. "I thought we could work together on this, since we're both obviously here for the same thing."

Jim pulled out a chair at the table and gestured to it. "Sit down."

"You think it's Reinhart, don't you?" She sat at the table, dropping her purse to the floor beside her.

"Maybe." John sat down opposite her. "Can't imagine why he'd be giving us the low down on witchcraft and demonology if he was though."

"He's a game-player, he enjoys an equal playing field." She looked around the room, taking in the protection. "Three years ago he was in Florida."

Jim sat down and frowned. "You've run into him before?"

"Not really. I was very careful not to get close before." Annie looked at him. "But I saw him there, and there were a number of deaths, inexplicable, bizarre deaths. He was raising something, or trying to raise something, the deaths were sacrifices."

"And you think he's doing the same thing now?"

"I've been waiting for him to surface again." She looked from one to the other. "I wasn't sure, not really, in Florida. Now I am."

"What do you think he's trying to summon?"

"I don't know, but given his power, I think it'd be better if we didn't wait around to find out, don't you?"

Jim smiled. "That's a point."

"I can't take him alone, he's too powerful, and I don't know how strong his apprentice is."

"Apprentice?"

"Remy Lavesseur." She looked at John. "You must have realised that he doesn't just work there."

John glanced at Jim. Annie looked at them exasperatedly.

"Didn't you see the scars? On his arms? Reinhart has been bleeding him for years."

"Bleeding him?" Jim's forehead creased as he leaned toward her.

"Most of the rituals that Reinhart does require blood. He doesn't use his own." She pulled out a file from her bag, passing it to him. "He dominates his apprentices somehow, possibly through a combination of fear and love."

Jim opened the file, looking at the police photos of a young man, his eyes wide open in death, his naked body patterned with fine white scars, the skin so pale it was almost translucent.

"Love?" John leaned across the table, looking at the photos.

"Yeah, from the little I've been able to cobble together about his past, he's been taking young men, usually teenagers, usually from the worst kind of backgrounds, and adopting them, giving them a home, some stability. It's not a big psychological leap, to see how easy it would be to convince them that they were safe, that he loved them and would look after them. And that one," she pointed to the file, "he died for Reinhart, willingly, let the man bleed him out."

John scowled. "How do we trap him?"

Annie shrugged. "It's supposed to be possible to bind a witch. To short-circuit their powers."

"Copper and spelled ribbons?" Jim looked up at her.

"That's what I've heard." She nodded. "There are some symbols, that can be made into seals, but I've never been able to track them down."

"We don't have enough time to find them now." John looked at Jim. "But if what we have works, we could take him."

"Think ordinary bullets will take him out?" Jim looked at Annie.

"He's still a man, no matter what powers he has. If he's not wearing a bullet proof vest, then a heart shot or head shot will kill him as dead as any other man." She shrugged.

"Alright. When?" John stood up, going to his gear bag.

"Tonight, before dawn. He lives in the apartment above the store." Annie looked at Jim. "We can probably take them both."

"How the hell do we get close enough to bind him?"

"This." She pulled out a vial of clear liquid from her bag. "_Cestrum nocturnum_. Night-blooming jessamine. It's a highly toxic plant that has particular efficacy against witches, psychics. It blocks their powers, renders them impotent."

"We're supposed to get him to swallow that? How?" John looked over his shoulder at the vial.

"No, even the scent is toxic, and it works against a witch's powers, cutting them off." She put the vial back in her bag. "He doesn't like the cold, this witch, he'll have a heating system and vents. We put the jessamine in the vents, and wait until he's passed out."

"Will it affect us?"

"Yes, definitely. Need gas masks for this."

* * *

John watched Annie slip through the narrow vent in the roof, easing her way down into the smooth metal shaft. He didn't like it. Didn't like her going in alone, didn't like the fact that they were operating on the basis of myth and legend. Lore about monsters and ghosts was one thing. The lore on witches was a different matter. It was contradictory and vague, more susceptible to being half-right or not right at all.

She gave him a thumb's up and wriggled down the vent, disappearing from view. The furnace in the basement vented heat throughout the building, she only had to find the openings to the bedrooms and pour her liquid jessamine over them and the warm, dry air would do the rest. Jim was watching with an infrared scope on the building across the street. He had a good view into the master bedroom on the top floor, could see the witch sleeping in his bed.

Five minutes later, Annie wriggled back into view, holding her arms up the narrow shaft. John gripped her wrists and pulled her out, and they replaced the cover, screwing it down again carefully.

Twenty minutes. He leaned against the parapet of the roof, glancing at his watch. And they could go in. He and Jim would bind Reinhart and take him down to the basement. Annie would keep a watch on the building for the return of the apprentice, who'd gone out earlier.

He thought of the books Reinhart had given them. They hadn't had time to do more than skim them, but they seemed to be authentic, seemed to be what he needed to summon and control the demons who could give him Azazel's location, tell him the demon's weaknesses, give him hope for a cure for his son.

He shook off the thoughts as he saw the single short flash from Jim's light across the street. _Get your head back here_, he told himself shortly. He nodded to Annie.

* * *

The jessamine had worked admirably, Jim thought, looking at the witch who was tied, slumped in the chair, with the copper and ribbon bindings.

Reinhart stirred slightly and Jim moved back, taking his position at a ninety degree angle from John, so that the witch couldn't see them both at the same time. The pale hair gleamed like platinum under the lamp's light and Reinhart raised his head slowly.

He looked down at the bindings that secured to the chair, copper wire threaded through with the black and red silk ribbons, wrapped around his wrists and ankles, shoulders and chest. He looked up at John.

"I take it that you believe I'm the witch you're seeking."

"Yeah, something like that." John face was impassive, his eyes dark and thoughtful.

"And since you didn't just kill me while I was unconscious, there's something you'd like to know?" Reinhart turned his head to Jim.

"We'd like to know what you're trying to raise to this world," Jim said mildly. "What the sacrifices were for."

Reinhart smiled. "I'm not trying to raise anything to this world, as you put it."

"Right."

"You think of me as evil." Reinhart laughed softly. "I'm not. Occasionally what I am forced to do could be considered in that light, I daresay, but I'm not seeking power or glory, mayhem or chaos. There's plenty of that in the world already, and why improve on something that is working well?"

John stared at the witch. "So raising demons and getting them to kill for you isn't about power?"

"You two seem to be under a number of misapprehensions about magic and mages." He turned to look at Jim, one brow raised archly. "We don't call the demons for power, but for knowledge."

"Knowledge?" Jim glanced at John.

"Of course. Demonkind has been around for a long time, and many of them are magpies for knowledge, for spells and ritual."

He stood up slowly and both men stared at the bindings that fell limply to either side of the chair.

"We don't need their power. We have plenty of our own." Reinhart looked down at the bonds. "And if you're going to try to trap a mage, you'd better do your homework more thoroughly than that."

He lifted his hand, flicking it languidly and John was flung back across the room, hitting the brick wall on the other side and falling limply to the floor. He lay there for a moment, then got slowly to his feet. The impact had been hard, but he'd taken most of it on his back. He took a deep breath and felt a stab of pain in his side, a cracked rib, maybe.

"The Left-Hand Path, gentlemen, is not about worshipping the devil or descending to the pit of carnal extremes. It is the pursuit of knowledge, of all things, above all else. We seek the Tree and its fruits, and we will do anything to get them, which is why the path tends to be more bloodied than its counterpart." He ran long fingers over his fine blonde hair. "Demons are greedy and rather chaotic creatures. They drink the pain and suffering of souls, trying, one presumes, to make up for the lack of their own, so occasionally sacrifices are required."

He turned as the door opened, and the young apprentice came through, pushing Annie ahead of him. The hunter was bound tightly, her hands behind her back, her feet hobbled, a black hood over her head.

Jim looked at her expressionlessly and back to Reinhart.

"At least you must admit this is no innocent victim." The mage smiled at the priest. "She knew what she was doing in coming here."

The young man stopped a few feet from the mage and pulled the hood off. Annie blinked, her head swinging around.

"Jim?"

"And now, I'm afraid that we must bid each other farewell." Reinhart looked beyond Jim at John. "You have, I hope, the information you came for, and for the sake of the sensibilities of this young lady, the rest of the ritual this evening requires privacy."

"You're not going to kill us?" John staggered slightly as he walked back toward Jim, one hand pressed against his side.

Reinhart laughed. "No, you've been quite a divertissement, John, and I hope I'm not being rude when I tell you that I don't see you as a particular threat."

He spread his hands apart, bowing his head for a moment then looked up at them. The flash of light that filled the room was brilliant enough to banish every shadow for a second. When it faded away, Jim and John were gone.

* * *

They hit the ground jarringly, the drop from where they'd been a couple of feet from their current location. John winced as the cracked rib flexed under his weight and stood gingerly, looking around in bewilderment. Beside him, Jim got to his feet, the same expression on his face.

They were at the docks, perhaps six or seven miles from the house where they'd been a moment ago, the fog rising around them.

"Godammit." John started walking, heading north and west. "He knew about us the whole time."

"Yeah." Jim followed him, walking quickly. "We need a car."

* * *

The basement was empty, a single lamp left on, when they entered it. John looked around in frustration.

They turned on their flashlights, and split up, walking around the walls of the room, studying the shelving, turning the light beams onto the floor, looking for breaks, for seams, for any kind of difference that could indicate a hidden door.

"Here." Jim's voice was barely a whisper.

On the floor, under the long table, a square of old, silvered timbers showed in the flashlight's strong beam. From a distance, and in the shadow of the table, it had been indiscernible from the rest of the floor.

Jim pulled the short pry bar from his belt and slid the end into the crack, lifting it slowly. John watched the darkness yawn open as the door rose, a scent rising to him of incense and bitter herbs burning. He nodded to Jim, taking the edge of the trap door and pushing it back. They turned off the flashlights, neither wanting to advertise their presence.

Against the side of the shaft that dropped deep into the ground beneath them, there was a ladder of stout timber, and John twisted, turning and feeling with his feet for the rungs as he went down it. The down shaft was maybe ten or twelve feet deep, and he felt Jim above him, the priest moving silently.

The floor was loose dirt, and John moved back, hands spread as he felt for the dimensions of the tunnel they were in. The walls seemed to be lined with timbers, roughly sawn and thick. They could both feel the air moving toward them, from deeper under the ground, carrying the scent on it.

The tunnel wasn't long, and it brightened after the first turn from the shaft, a dim light reflecting from the metal fastenings holding the bracing frames in place, enough to see where they were going. John stopped as he saw the end and the wide space of the room beyond it. He dropped to his knees, crawling slowly and silently to the entrance.

Perhaps thirty feet long and fifteen or so feet wide, the underground chamber had a low ceiling of closely spaced thick timber beams supporting the earth and rock above them. Torches, pitch-soaked, flaming torches, were held in iron brackets around the walls, the flames flickering, light and shadows leaping against the ceiling and over the three figures they could see in the middle of the room. The floor had been flagged with stone here, and John stared at the cut channels in the stone, circles engraved, some filled with metal, others empty.

In the centre of the room, Reinhart and his apprentice stood to either side of a circle. The flamelight had deepened the colour of their hair and skin, giving them a reddish cast. Above the circle, Annie had been suspended by her ankles, her pale, freckled skin hued and shadowed by the moving golden light, her hair lit to a deep red in it. Her arms hung out to each side, her body forming an inverted crucifix, the ends of her long hair just brushing the floor.

John heard Jim's sharp inhale as he noticed the blood dripping from her arms, from the long cuts that ran from wrist to elbow along the arteries, her blood filling the empty channels of the circle beneath her.

Moving with infinite care, John pulled the automatic from his jacket, his thumb easing the safety off. Beside him, Jim drew his revolver.

Both Reinhart and his apprentice seemed to be in deep concentration, thoughts focussed on the ritual they were performing. John could feel the air thickening, as if something was coming through, something he really didn't want to see, something that would devour the woman above the circle, and certainly be more difficult to kill than the witch and his boy in front of them. He raised his gun and took careful aim, the sight over the tall man's forehead.

The gunshot was massively loud in the confined space, booming against the walls and leaving a ringing in his ears. Jim's .45 was louder, the big calibre bullet smashed through the witch's chest leaving a large black hole and spreading a wide spray of blood and bone as it exited through his back. They watched the witch drop, swinging their guns around to the apprentice, but Remy had disappeared with the first shot.

Running into the room, Jim ripped the side of his shirt as he reached Annie, John's knife sliced through the rope that held her suspended at the far wall. Jim caught her as John eased the rope down, the hunter's knife in his hand now, cutting the ropes that bound her ankles. The priest instinctively stepped out and away from the blood circle as the tension of the rope loosened, looking up as John took a part of Annie's weight and they lowered her to the ground. Jim tore and wadded up the cloth from his shirt, wrapping around one forearm and knotting it tightly, repeating the dressing with the other arm. He couldn't tell how much blood she'd lost but her skin was white.

John pulled a small first aid kit from his coat pocket, and handed it to Jim, straightening and walking around the edge of the circle to the body of the witch on the other side.

Reinhart had fallen half into the circle, one arm flung out, his eyes open and glazing over in death, blood pooling around his head and torso. John crouched beside him, staring at the aristocratic features, wondering if they could have gotten any other information from the witch that would help them. Too late now, he thought.

His gaze sharpened suddenly. He thought that the eyes had blinked. But they were open, sightless as he leaned closer over the head.

The blue irises changed to yellow and before John could move, he felt his arm gripped by the witch's hand, the fingers tightening like talons around the muscle, biting deeply into him. He threw himself backward, trying to use his weight to break free, shock hammering at him as the body followed him, the eyes focussing on him, the dead lips, already bluish, drawing back from the teeth in a leering smile.

"John! Long time no see!"

He knew that voice, not the timbre but the accent, the familiar southern accent wrapped in the clear tenor of the body it was inhabiting.

"Jim, get her out, get out," he managed to gasp as Azazel rolled over on top of him, knees pressing into his chest, the other hand closing around his throat.

"Tsk, tsk John. Look at you, trapped like a rat. Did you think that you could find out the binding spell for me, John? Did you?"

The demon tightened his grip, squeezing harder, and John felt his eyelids fluttering, his vision narrowing as his windpipe was crushed under the inexorable pressure of the demon's fingers.

He barely heard the boom of the gun, deafening as it was in the confined stone chamber, but Azazel's fingers loosened as the bullet's impact knocked his meatsuit sideways. Rolling slowly to one side, John tried to crawl as Jim stared at the demon, rising again from the floor, eyes glowing like fire in the shattered sockets.

"Father, I'm surprised at you, a man of the cloth, blazing away like a common murderer." Azazel grinned. "Me and John here, we have some business here, some dying business for John."

As the demon straightened, John was lifted from the floor, his fingers scrabbling against the stone for something to hold onto. He was thrown abruptly across the room, hitting the massive timber frame with his shoulder and side, falling to the floor. The demon gestured, its eyes on Jim, and John flew into the air again, this time straight up, the back of his head striking the beam with a crack that was clearly audible. Raising the revolver, Jim spun and fired, the bullet going wide as the gun was plucked from his fingers, flung to the other side of the room and clattering as it landed on the stone floor. He backed away, fighting the shock and fear he could feel crawling through him, fighting the certainty that he was going to die, leaving the demon to destroy his friend. His fingers slid into the pocket of his jacket, looking for the smooth leather cover of the book he carried with him everywhere.

The demon watched him, the dead face of the witch contorted into a delighted grin, his hand lifted, the fingers spread out widely. Behind him, John was rising from the floor again, held suspended in the air, his arms being pulled to either side of him. Jim's face twisted as he saw the hunter's head fall back, a scream forcing its way from his throat as his joints were pulled away from his body.

"You really should have hidden, John," Azazel said conversationally, turning away from the priest and cocking his head to one side. "I've known where Sam is for a while, you know. And now, I know where Dean is."

Jim felt his breath stop, the implied threat hanging in the silence of his mind. His fingers closed around the book, and he drew it out.

"I'll do your boy nice and slow, make sure he knows why it's all happening, how you let him down again, don't you worry, John."

He dropped his hand abruptly and John was slammed to the floor, blood pouring from his nose and mouth as his ribs broke, his jaw and nose and cheekbone fractured under the impact.

"You'll go back to Hell," Jim said quietly from behind him and Azazel turned around.

Standing straight and still as he faced the demon, his bible in one raised hand, his knife in the other, Jim's face was calm and bright. The book glowed with a silvery-white light, drowning out the gold of the torchlight, banishing the shadows that filled the room, brightening and flooding outwards with every second that passed. The knife began to grow, white flame licking and coruscating along its edge, from twelve inches to two feet, then three and still lengthening as Jim walked toward the demon.

Azazel stared at the sword that the priest was holding, his eyes narrowed. "You are corrupted, Jim Murphy, corrupted and foul, you have killed and tortured, Michael will not–"

Jim's mouth stretched in a wide smile. "Just watch me."

He swung the sword, the edge hissing through the air toward the demon, the small white flames flickering and reaching out, blazing into the room. Azazel's eyes widened in shock and he leapt backward out of the long reach of the weapon, John dropping to the floor behind him.

"_In nomine Domini nostri omnipotens Deus, creator et exterminatore Alpha et Omega, unum verum Deum virtute perdam te Satanae pariunt, ut secet te eius amore, et auferam terram vestram gaudiis."_

Jim lunged forward, feeling the power fluxing through him, from the book to the sword, his body incandescent with the strength that he thought came directly from Heaven.

The demon scrambled backward, and fell over John's body, the mouth of Reinhart opening wide and a torrent of charcoal smoke pouring from it, writhing across the ceiling and disappearing up the tunnel as Jim stopped beside his friend.

The light died from the book and the sword shrank, becoming his knife again. Azazel had fled and would not return, he realised, feeling an ache at the power that ebbed from him, a sense of loss that pierced his heart as it died away completely.

He sheathed the knife and slid the book back into his pocket as he knelt beside John, fingers reaching for the artery at the side of his neck. John's pulse was thready, uneven, and as Jim looked over him, his mind mercilessly cataloguing the broken bones, torn flesh and the fast flow of blood, he prayed as he hadn't done for years.

* * *

""Dean, it's Jim." Jim leaned against the wall, his throat tight and his chest aching. "Your dad's been hurt, get up here now."

"What? Jim, slow down. What happened?"

The priest heard the doubt and fear in the young man's voice. He felt it himself. He'd called the police and paramedics, unable to get John out of the sub-basement on his own. He'd been in and out of the police station for the last eight hours, refining his story of what had happened, all too aware that John lay near death in the hospital, the doctors unable to even operate until he was stabilised enough to endure it, to survive it.

"Just get here as fast as you can," he said, hesitating for a moment then adding. "It's bad, he … needs you."

He couldn't say the words, not out loud and not to the young man he'd watched grow up. He couldn't tell Dean that John might be dying.

"Gimme the address," Dean said, his voice hard and low. Jim gave him the hospital's address and hoped that he'd understood.

When he hung up, he turned and went back inside the hospital, taking the elevator to the sixth floor. Annie was in a room there as well, her blood being replaced, her wounds cleaned and dressed and healing. The mental wounds, he thought, would take longer. She had told him a little of what the ritual had entailed. His stomach had turned as he'd listened to her faltering narration, his hand closing convulsively around hers.

He walked slowly down the hall to the ICU, nodding at the nurse as he entered. Stopping beside John's bed, he stared down at the man, at the tubes and dressings that covered him. Beside the bed, a respirator was breathing for him.

They had been friends for a long time. They didn't always see eye to eye on everything, but the man's loyalty and courage were unquestionable. He knew, as perhaps no one else did, the fears and doubts held inside, the torture he'd been forced to endure for the last twenty years, his grief and guilt and the overwhelming fear that his sons could be taken from him as Mary had been, the way it had changed him and honed him and metamorphosed him.

He knew about the demon and its plans for Sam, about the threats it had made on the boys, and the way that had affected John. He knew about Kate and Adam and John's need to keep them out of his life, despite the love for them that he'd held tight, deep inside himself. He knew that if John died, he would have to tell Dean his father's secrets, because John had extracted that promise years ago from him.

_Don't die, John_. His fingertips brushed against his friend's hand. _Don't make me do that to Dean, don't make look into his eyes and crush his hope, crush his life_.

The monitors hummed and the respiratory machine sighed. He wasn't quite stable, but he was improving. He would go into the first of many scheduled surgeries in two days' time.

* * *

_**Two days later.**_

Dean stared at the man on the bed. His father had come out of surgery, the first of many, Jim had said, an hour ago. No matter where he looked, he couldn't see John Winchester in the man that lay in front of him. There was nothing that was familiar, not the grey-tinged flesh that hung from the bones of his face, not the wasted muscles that barely lifted the coverlet over him. Not the silver-threaded hair that had been shaved down to the scalp in too many places, exposing knotted purple and white gashes that glared lividly against the dark hair. He stood and stared and couldn't find his Dad, not in this wreck of a human lying motionless on the bed, kept alive by the machines that surrounded him.

He backed away, his face white and drawn, turning away from Jim as his eyes feverishly searched for the exit.

"Dean."

Dean shook his head, seeing the doors, his head bowing as he pushed his way through them and began to run, the smack of his boot soles echoing from the tiled walls and linoleum floor. He found the stairs, and raced them down, barely able to see, his hand sliding down the metal rail, going down the flights, turning automatically until he reached the bottom. The light was out, and the bottom of the stairwell was dim and silent. He stopped abruptly, sinking down onto the last step, feeling fear and pain and loss sweeping around him, closing around him and suffocating him.

_Not Dad, please God, not Dad, I can't do this alone, I can't keep fighting alone, I'm not strong enough, not brave enough, I can't be alone, I can't keep losing people, not Dad, please, not Dad, don't leave me here alone._

Jim walked slowly down the stairs, pausing as he saw the hunched figure at the bottom, heard the harsh ingress and egress of breath echoing very softly against the cold, concrete walls. He wasn't sure if Dean would accept his presence now. Wasn't sure that the young man could face anyone right now.

Dean stiffened and looked over his shoulder, sensing the priest's presence though he hadn't made a sound.

"Did you call Sam?"

Jim looked down at him and shook his head. "Not yet."

"You need to call him." He turned away, wiping the tears impatiently from his eyes, from his face. "He won't answer my calls. But he'll listen to you, Jim."

Jim walked down the last flight, and sat down, raking his hand through his hair.

"W-w-what happened to h-him?" The words were broken, coming out through a throat thickened by misery.

"We were hunting a witch. A powerful one. John shot it, but a demon rose, through the ritual circle, and possessed the dead witch." He glanced sideways. "An older demon."

Dean closed his eyes.

"It threw your father around." He stopped, the memory rising too vividly in his mind.

"He's going to die, isn't he?"

Jim put his arm around the younger man's shoulders, feeling them harden and bunch under the touch, tightening his grip against the silent protest anyway.

"He might," he acknowledged slowly. There was little point in not being honest. "But your dad, he's very strong, he's got a very strong will to live. So we're not going to write him off yet, alright?"

He felt the shoulders shaking, as Dean nodded, then a very gradual softening as the tension leeched out.

"What am I gonna do if he dies, Jim?" Dark green eyes turned to him, bright with still unshed tears, the lashes tangled and sticky.

"We'll go on." Jim sighed softly. "We'll take up his fight, and we'll go on."

* * *

"You have to eat something, or you're going to end up with a bed here yourself," Jim chided gently, watching as Dean pushed the food around the plate disinterestedly.

John would be out of the latest surgery in another hour. It was the fourth round in four weeks, and due to the infection that had struck the previous week, the odds in John's favour had been reduced considerably. He was breathing on his own again, more or less, although he was still hooked up to the respirator at night. The oedema on his brain had been relieved, and the skull fractures were healing fast. His shoulder, the one that had taken the first hit, had been reset. He was mending, but it was slow and with the number and extent of injuries, it would be weeks before they knew for sure that he would live, and months before he could move around enough to be able to leave the hospital.

"I should have been here, Jim," Dean said softly, finally looking at him.

Jim felt his heart jump in his chest, a rattling double-beat that brought beads of perspiration to his forehead in an instant.

Had Dean been here, the yellow-eyed demon would have taken enormous pleasure in killing him in front of John, an appetiser to the main course. He swallowed his reaction. He couldn't tell Dean that. His friend had told his sons bits and pieces about the demon, but had never told them of the threats it had made against them.

"No." Jim leaned forward, his eyes intent on the young man's face. "This is not your fault, Dean, this had nothing to do with you."

Dean's gaze dropped back to his plate. He didn't want to argue about it with Jim. He knew he should have had his father's back. That was his job. That, and protecting Sam, which he couldn't do anymore.

"Dean, listen to me, please," Jim tried again, seeing all too easily the guilt that the man sitting opposite him was carrying. "We thought we had it covered. We had no idea that the ritual the witch was doing was to raise this particular demon, none at all. Your Dad, the last thing he would have wanted was for you to have been there. You couldn't have done anything. Nothing at all. You would have died for nothing and that really would have killed him."

"How did you get out?"

"I had help, a lot of help." Jim remembered the heat in the book in his hand, the flow of it through him to his knife. He'd felt that twice before, had been told that help would always come if it was truly needed.

Dean looked up, interested in spite of himself. "What kind of help?"

"Divine help." Jim's mouth lifted slightly at one corner. "I'll tell you about it later but without it, we both would have died. And had you been there, no matter how hard you fought, you would have died as well."

He watched as the words sank in. He wasn't sure if it was nature or nurture, but he'd seen Dean take on an adult's responsibility since he was a very small boy. Seen him embrace it and carry it without a thought for what it would do to him, for the burden it would become. It had happened gradually, and he knew that John had seen it as well, at first welcoming that characteristic, that made it possible for him to hunt without worry for the safety of his sons, then realising too late that his eldest boy was taking on too much, felt responsible for too much, was drowning in the guilt and shame when he couldn't protect his family.

* * *

"Hey kiddo."

The voice, once dark and deep and velvety, was now unrecognisable. Dean forced a smile, not realising that it hadn't reached his eyes.

"Thought you said you were being careful," he said, trying not to make it an accusation as he looked over the monitors and machines that still mostly surrounded his father.

John's mouth lifted on one side, tugging at the stitches. "I was being careful. Just had a bit of bad luck."

He grimaced inwardly as he saw the flash of pain in his son's eyes at the words. "Yeah, well, maybe it was more than a bit. But I'm still here."

"Yeah."

John looked at him carefully. He could see the fear that lay close to the surface, could see the strain in the too-thin face, the too-big eyes. It came to him slowly that, next to losing his brother, losing him was probably Dean's biggest terror, the one he could least cope with, even when the danger had passed. His son's imagination was powerful, and cruel, and he knew without needing the confirmation from Jim's worried glance that Dean hadn't been sleeping, that imagination force-feeding him nightmares about the could-have-beens and might-have-beens.

Jim turned away, leaving them alone and John reached out his hand. Dean looked down at it and put his own into it, feeling its warmth, even though the strength he remembered wasn't there.

"This is the life, right?" John said softly. "This is what we have to be prepared for every day."

"I should have been here, Dad."

"No." John felt the same chill as Jim had at the thought of his son being at the demon's mercy. Nothing would have given Azazel more pleasure than ripping his boy apart in front of him. He swallowed hard. "No."

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images that rose unbidden in his mind.

"It's not your responsibility to take care of me, Dean." He closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around his son's hand as he felt the involuntary movement, the pulling away. "It's mine to take care of you."

Dean looked up at him. "We need to watch out for each other. I'm not a kid anymore."

John smiled slightly. "No, you're not. But you're still my son. My boy. And it would still destroy me to lose you."

He watched Dean's head duck down, his heart twisting at the gesture. How had it been so easy to fuck up his sons the way he had, he wondered. Sam, filled with anger and wanting nothing to do with him. Dean, so bound up by his love and guilt and responsibility that he'd rather die than lose his family. They were strong, he knew, both of him, he supposed he could take some of the credit for that, but they needed so much more. He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes.

"How'd the Texas job go?" he asked softly, hating himself for taking the easy way out, for not persevering with this conversation when he knew how much they both needed it.

He felt Dean's relief, in the relaxation of his fingers, in the lightening of his voice.

"Vetala. Ganked them."

"Them?"

"There were two, working as a team. I checked it out afterwards, and they do usually work in pairs. The one you and Jim got must have lost her partner."

John opened his eyes and looked at his son. "Did you update the journal?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Good job." He looked at his son through hooded eyes, feeling tiredness creeping up on him. "Especially on your own. I remember how strong those bitches are."

Dean smiled, a cocky, one-sided grin that reassured John immensely. "Hey, it's me."

"Yeah, it's you." He smiled and felt his lids closing fast.

* * *

_**Blue Earth, Minnesota. Three months later.**_

John sat back in the wheelchair, and took the beer that Jim passed to him.

"You still don't believe in God, John?" The priest settled himself in the chair next to him, taking a long swallow from the bottle he held.

"I believe that something helped us." John glanced sideways at his friend.

Jim laughed. "Something is right. God is here, John, He wants to help. You have to let him in."

"I don't understand why he didn't help when Mary made her decision, when she was pinned and burned on the ceiling of our home." He shook his head. "I'll never understand that, Jim."

"Free will is what He gave, John. Free will to make our own choices – and to live with them. How could He intervene in Mary's choice? How could He save her from the consequences of that choice? He's tried to give you the strength to fight this battle for all these years."

"Strength isn't enough." John turned away from him. "Not to save Sam, not to save Dean, not to help me."

* * *

"_A preacher must be both soldier and shepherd. He must nourish, defend, and teach; he must have teeth in his mouth, and be able to bite and fight."_

_~ Martin Luther_


	28. Chapter 28 The Stranger

**Chapter 28 The Stranger**

* * *

_**2004. New York City, New York.**_

The long esplanade that fronted the harbour channelled a chill January wind through the bare branches and stark trunks of the trees that lined it, straight onto the back of Dean's neck. He lifted the collar of his leather jacket higher, pulling it around his ears as a series of involuntary shivers ran down his spine. Dirty snow and slush was melting very slowly over the grey pavers, and the entire place looked like one of those depressing black and white photographs that so impressed art critics.

He blew on his fingers, and shifted slightly behind the monument to get further out of the wind. The latest victim had been found in the apartment building he was watching, a woman in her late twenties, professional, wealthy in her own right, with a long list of friends and no enemies. There had been no break in, the cops had confirmed that the victim had known her assailant, had let him in. After which he'd proceeded to torture her for an unspecified length of time, before strangling her.

She was the fifth victim in a year. And the first female. It was driving the cops crazy, he knew. Dad had picked up on the pattern after the third one, when they'd seen the security camera footage. The double-blink of a monster's eyes, irises reflective on the film. Shapeshifter.

It explained the ease of entry, the lack of clues left at the scenes, the impossibility of finding the killer.

He turned and looked up the street. No one had noticed them yet. The manhole cover was open in the middle of the street, just slightly, his father underground, hooking a simple repeater into the street's security cameras. It would be found at the next scheduled cable check, but they'd be long gone by then.

He turned as he heard the sound of metal grating over tarmac, and walked toward the cover, tilting it upward as John climbed out, the city's coveralls hiding his clothes. He pulled out his bag and Dean eased the cover back over the hole, hunching against the wind as they walked north.

"Next time I'll go underground where it's warm and you can stand watch on the street," Dean said sourly. John grinned at him.

"When _you're_ fifty, with ten broken bones still healing up, you can certainly have the underground jobs. In the meantime, kiddo, you're the outside man."

* * *

By contrast, the hotel room was tropical when they returned, and they both shed their jackets as soon as the door had closed behind them.

"What have we got on the subway?"

"BMT originals show a level below the currently closed level between Bowling Green and South Ferry." Dean pulled out the schematics and spread them over the table. "Every hit has been in the vicinity." He took the beer his father passed him, and looked down at the plans. "What I don't understand is why he changed his MO."

John stood next to him, his gaze moving over the lines of the subway plans. "Ambitious?" He shrugged.

"He could have taken thousands – hell, probably did judging by the pile of bones we saw in the old sewerage network on the east side – and no one would have ever been the wiser that there was a monster living there," Dean pressed. "Now, he's noticed almost immediately because he's taking people who are highly visible. Why?"

"I guess even monsters eventually succumb to wanting media attention." John swallowed a mouthful of beer and shook his head. "I don't know."

He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters now if finding it, and killing it."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Shifter isn't like any other monster, Dean. You haven't seen one before, so listen up."

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to tell his father that he had seen one before, when he remembered it was a secret. A kid's secret, but still a secret. He still couldn't face those memories very well, so he let it go, sitting at the table and listening as his father detailed the lore.

"If it touches you, your skin, or your hair, it can shift to resemble you – exactly. So we can't get separated, not even for a few minutes. I don't know if it'll be much warmer down in the disused tunnels, but we're going to be covered up as well as we can be." He glanced at the files on the table. "Even though this one is doing its work in the homes of the people it's attacking, it'll still have its lair underground. They're fast and they're strong, and they enjoy fucking around with your head. Remember that."

Dean nodded, he knew that much.

"It takes them a few minutes to shed the old skin and change into the new form. That's about our only advantage. Unfortunately the length of time is different with each shifter I've come across. Jim thinks it's to do with their age – the older ones are faster than the younger ones. We have no idea how a shifter is … made, or born, or whatever the process is. They hunt alone usually, although I did come across a pair when I was first starting out. And other hunters have told me that they've run across a pair, very rarely."

A _pair_, Dean thought unhappily. That would be a nightmare.

"We know what it is and we know where it is – more or less – and we know how to kill it. So we just have to watch each other's backs and be careful." John finished the beer and got up, gesturing to the gear bag that sat on the end of the bed. "Silver bullets, both handguns and the silver knives instead of the regulars. We'll want four clips for each gun. Let's do it."

They started reloading the magazines. John wanted to go in after dark, preferably while the shifter was out. If they could find the lair, and a reasonably secure hiding place, they would wait for it to return and put it down without it knowing they were there. _If, if, if_, he thought pensively.

* * *

They went in through the new station entrance at South Ferry, crossing the lines to get to the old station and heading down to the older levels via the TA access shafts. The rumble of the operating lines above them was a constant reminder of the city that never sleeps, although their surroundings were almost medieval, the fitted stone tunnels and concrete chambers where they intersected, built over a hundred years before, and showing the ingenuity of the people who'd designed and constructed them.

Now they were empty, dark tunnels, some of the lines scavenged leaving an uneven stone floor, other left mostly intact, the rails and sleepers easy to misjudge and trip over. The hard, curved surfaces amplified and distorted every sound, and they found themselves relying more on their eyes than their ears as they moved through the darkness.

John walked point, his flashlight focussed on the ground ahead of them, the 9mm in his right hand. Three feet behind him, Dean walked sideways, his light showing the tunnel behind them as well as to the side and occasionally the ground at his feet. When they reached a junction, they checked the schematic, following each of the secondary tunnels for a few hundred yards as they came to them, returning to the main tunnel if there was nothing to find.

The shifter was transforming frequently. It needed privacy for that, and the cast-off flesh would be somewhere in the vicinity of the lair, John was sure of it.

The noise of the trains running above them disappeared gradually, and neither noticed for a few minutes.

"I think we're under the park now." John looked up as he realised the tunnel was almost silent, playing the light over the ceilings of the tunnel. The air was growing cooler, away from the warmth of the active tunnels, and closer to the harbour, and they could both feel a dampness in it, bringing painful twinges to John's newly-healed fractures.

Dean saw an opening in the tunnel ahead and to the right. They walked toward it, almost side by side.

"This wasn't built by the engineers of the subway," John murmured, as their flashlights played over the rough rock and piles of debris that were banked against the sides.

"I thought shapeshifters used existing ground works." Dean looked at the floor, which showed pick furrows and fractures in the hard, brittle layer of schist. "Since when do they excavate their own?"

John shook his head. He had no idea. They moved up the narrow tunnel cautiously, and now John saw what he'd been looking for, the piles and patches and clumps of slimy, pale flesh, adhering to the sharp rock walls, sloughed off on the piles of broken stone that lay along the tunnel floor. He stopped, directing his light onto one of them, and saw his son nod in understanding.

The tunnel twisted and rose and fell, possibly avoiding the areas of bedrock that had been too difficult to cut through. They were moving back under the streets and buildings but nowhere near the subway tunnels, he thought uneasily. The tunnel snaked so much that even a few feet back it appeared to be a blank wall. A thought formed in John's mind that it looked very much like a trap.

He stopped abruptly, and shone the light over every inch of the tunnel's surface, turning slowly. Dean was no longer behind him, and as the light played up the wall, he saw the reason why – the square cut hole in the tunnel's ceiling was still sending a little dust to the floor below, the fine particles gleaming in the light.

"DEAN!" John shouted, the echoes deafening him in the narrow tunnel, obliviating any possible response that his son might have made. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. What the hell could take a hundred and ninety pound man silently and that fast? Shifters were strong but they weren't that strong.

He backtracked along the tunnel for a few turns, looking for any sign of another entrance to the higher level. There were none. It was too high to jump up to. There was nothing here that he could use to get up there. He leaned against the wall for a long moment, unable to think of what to do next, his heart slamming against his ribs with fear.

_Go on_. That was the only choice. If the tunnel led to the lair, he might find Dean there as well. He didn't feel confident of that, this shifter didn't behave like any of the others he'd seen. Or heard about. Or read about. Was it a different type? A sport in the world of monsters? Or was it just older than he'd come across before, smarter, stronger, better able to survive?

None of those questions would get an answer if he stood here doing nothing, he thought irritably. He started to move down the tunnel again, fast this time. If it was a trap, then he wanted to spring it.

* * *

Dean woke in a small round chamber lit by two battery-powered camping lights. He was sitting on the ground, his back against a stone pillar, hands tied tightly around the column behind him, feet bound tightly together in front of him. He'd been stripped of his clothes and boots and weapons, and his skin had goose-pimpled in the cool air, so he'd been here for a while anyway. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened, but the last clear memory he had was of standing in the tunnel behind his father, looking at a pile of slimy, pink flesh. Moving his head was a mistake, he found, after he turned it sharply to look around and sparkles and flashes danced in front of his eyes, a ringing sound filling his ears. He'd been hit, that was obvious. How the thing had got the drop on him was another question. He was sure that the tunnel behind them had been clear, empty.

He could feel a slight air movement against his left cheek and he turned his head slowly to look that way. A tunnel opening breeched the rock wall there, the air coming in smelled fresh and briny. Where the hell was he?

The click of rock falling onto rock, behind him and to his right. He froze. From that direction came a sound he'd never heard before, couldn't imagine the cause of it. A sucking, tearing noise, interspersed with the sounds of wet things dropping to the ground. In his mind he saw the piles of flesh and felt his gorge rise as the noises continued, becoming thicker and louder.

When the shifter stepped into his line of view, he couldn't help but stare. It was him. Down to the small scar on his chin that he'd gotten falling out a tree when he was seven. Dressed in his clothes, the automatic shoved into the waistband of his jeans. The shifter smiled, a familiar, one-sided, cocky grin.

"Hope those aren't too tight, you'll be here for a while," it said in his voice, the pitch and timbre exact.

"Thought you were only after the high-flyers?" Dean managed to get out. "We're kind of low on the totem pole, aren't we?"

It grinned widely at him this time, eyes widening slightly. "But you and dear ol' dad are hunters. That gives you the kind of cachet that I rarely find in this city. Someone who actually knows me, knows what I do, knows what I can do – that personal recognition is worth rubies, _n'est-ce pas_?" It crouched down in front of him. "And hearing you two squeal and scream, with all that knowledge … that's just a thrill I can't wait for."

Dean looked away. "You won't get my dad, he's a lot smarter than you."

It reached out and gripped his jaw, twisting his head back to look into its face. "You sell yourself short, Dean. Intelligence had nothing to do with me getting you. The trap was designed to be invisible and it was, until it was too late. You don't know enough about shifters, despite very nearly banging one; and your dad doesn't know enough about what happens to shifters when they mature, become really ripe, you might say."

It let him go and straightened up. "Humans' real gift is their emotions. They're so vivid, so immediate – and it doesn't matter what kind, laughter, tears, agony, grief … all equal to something like me. The more you give, the more I get."

"Now you, Dean Winchester, eldest son of John and Mary Winchester, brother to Samuel Winchester, who left you for a normal life … you're a fucking goldmine. But I need to go and grab your dad first. Nothing personal, he's just more experienced and therefore more dangerous. I always neutralise the more dangerous ones first, capiche?"

It walked back behind the pillar, the sound of the boots on the loose rock echoing in the narrow tunnel, then slowly fading away.

Dean leaned his head back against the rock behind him. Dad wouldn't fall for that facsimile, he was sure of it. But his stomach was knotting. He felt for any give in the ties binding him and found none. He had to think of a way to get free, and he had to do it fast.

* * *

The tunnel began to descend and John slowed again, acutely aware that the creature he was hunting had created this maze, and could be ahead, behind or above him without him knowing about it until it was too late. The gun he held was loaded, a round in the chamber, safety off and ready to fire, his only requirement was that he manage to aim the damned thing accurately. He stopped at the next bend, listening. Ahead of him, he could hear something dripping, slowly, onto another wet surface. He eased around the corner and saw light ahead, just a glimmer reflected on the moist surface of the stone tunnel but it looked stronger than a flashlight, and steady.

He waited again at the next bend, breathing shallowly through his mouth to avoid making any sound himself. The dripping was louder. The light was stronger, a golden shade that reminded him of flame. He turned off the flashlight, but kept a hold of it, it was long, with a military issue metal casing and it could dent heads if needed. He moved ahead in increments, shifting to the side of the tunnel that covered him the most.

The chamber was small and round, a column of stone acting as a central support, and two openings on the far side. The light came from a dozen candles, set along a tin chest on the wall opposite him. The flames burned steadily, without a flicker and he looked automatically at the wax at their bases, judging that they'd been lit less than an hour ago.

_When we came into the tunnels_, he thought, wondering how much the shifter had known about their plans before they'd entered – or had guessed. He stepped along the wall to his right, keeping his back against the rock, leading with the gun. The sound of the shot was deafening in the small area and the bullet hit him like a freight train, just under the collarbone, in the brachial plexus. His gun dropped to the floor, his fingers unable to hold it as the nerve connection was severed to almost all the small muscles in his hand. He twisted away from the man coming toward him, face shadowed by the candlelight behind his back, and dove and rolled for the entrance he'd come in through.

"Don't waste your time, John. Or your energy. I can put a bullet in your head just as easily from ten feet as I can from five, your boy is a great shot." The voice was Dean's, and John felt the shock hit him, taking the strength from his muscles as he looked up into his son's face.

The butt of the gun hit him on the side of the skull, just below and behind the ear, and he slumped to the floor.

* * *

A sharp scent, insistent and unpleasant, brought him back to consciousness and he opened his eyes, twisting his face away from it, feeling nausea roll through his stomach as his head throbbed where he'd been hit. He was sitting up, his back against the stone column, his hands pulled behind it, the sharp edges and clinking of metal telling him that they were cuffed there.

Dean – _not Dean_, he thought quickly – crouched to one side of him, closing the vial of smelling salts up tightly. It looked at him and one corner of the mouth lifted slightly.

"Disturbing, I know, to see the face of a loved one without that person behind the eyes. One of these days I'll figure out how to absorb enough of the person to really be able to fool people properly, but these things take time."

John stared at the ground between his feet. "Where's my son?"

"He's safe. Sitting alone in a chamber very much like this one, thinking about how to escape, I should imagine." The laugh was unexpected, John hadn't heard Dean's laugh in a while. "Not that he'll have any success with that."

"If you hurt him –"

"You'll what? Kill me?" It raised an eyebrow curiously. "Yeah, okay. Let's skip the meaningless threats, shall we?"

"What do you want?" He leaned his head back against the column and closed his eyes.

"What do I want? Well, many, many things, of course, as do we all. But right now, with two hunters as my houseguests, I guess what I'm looking for is a good game of Truth or Dare. With the emphasis on the truth part, since you're not able to do much in the daring department."

"What?"

"Conversation, man. With – well, you're hardly my peers, but let's say with someone au fait with my particular skills and abilities." It stood up and looked at the candles on the chest. "I thought torturing the fabulous and famous would be more entertaining than just ripping the guts out of John Q, but it turned out I was wrong. The fabulous and famous aren't all that interesting, in fact often the opposite."

John's eyes narrowed. Was this what drove shifters? The need to talk about themselves?

"Hunters, on the other hand, at least know what they're talking to, _la mayor parte del tiempo_, we hope."

"You want to talk about yourself? That it?" John looked up at it dismissively.

It snorted, crouching down beside him again. "Now, John, let's get off the high horse for a moment. I want to talk about you as well, and about your family." It stroked its hand along his leg slowly, and he felt his skin crawling at the touch, suddenly seeing all too clearly how easy it would be for this thing to break him wearing Dean's face and body.

"Some people respond well to physical torture. Some do better with mental. Sooner or later, everyone gives me what I need, what I have to have to keep growing and learning."

The hand moved to his face, and he turned his head away, forcing himself to keep talking. "What … are you trying to learn?"

"To be human, of course." It leaned closer to him. "Aren't we all?"

* * *

Dean was shivering continually and his teeth were chattering. The slight air that came through the tunnel behind him was cold and seemed to be getting colder. It had to lead to the outside somewhere close by.

He pulled his legs closer to his chest, trying to protect some of his core temperature. The movement pushed him slightly up the column behind him, the sharp edges of the rock slicing into his back. The pain made him arch away from it, and he felt a trickle of blood flow down his skin. That brought a more obvious thought. He turned his hands inwards, feeling around the other side of the pillar for any kind of similar sharp outcroppings. The schist that underlaid a lot of the area was highly compressed, layered, and prone to splitting along the layers. His thumb found the split edge, despite the care he was using to feel around, he could feel the blood welling out of the cut.

_Sharp enough to cut me, sharp enough to cut the ropes_, he thought, and brought his wrists carefully around until he could feel the protrusion between them. He hoped he wouldn't end up slicing up the veins in them, and started to move the rope over the edge of the rock, back and forth, his eyes half-closed as his concentration narrowed down to the one, simple action.

* * *

"You have quite a kid here, John," it said conversationally, sitting in front of him cross-legged. "Not sure you can take much of the credit; from his memories, it seems that you pushed far too much responsibility onto the poor boy from a very young age – I mean, he was only four, for Christ's sake."

John stared at the ground. If he didn't look at it, it was far easier to keep in his head that it wasn't Dean. It had his son's voice but not his syntax, not the way he expressed himself or the way he thought. Not looking at it meant that he wasn't continually being knifed by the sight of his son sitting there, another being staring out through the clear green eyes.

It leaned forward and pushed a knuckle into the bullet wound in his shoulder. John clamped his teeth together and locked his throat, refusing to let the scream in his chest out.

"This is a dialogue, John. If I wanted to have a monologue, I'd have killed you both when you first entered. A dialogue is two people speaking, one after the other. I ask questions or make interesting observations, and you respond to them – are we clear?"

John's breath hissed out as the knuckle was removed, the sensation of a white-hot metal rod in the muscle slowly reducing to a more generalised burning pain. It looked at him thoughtfully, raising its hand again, and John nodded, sucking a deep breath in as his heartbeat settled down slowly.

"What … was the question?" He closed his eyes, tipping his head back.

"Dean. Your first born. The cowardly and ongoing act of pushing responsibility onto your four-year old so that you could get revenge instead of dealing with the fact that shit happens."

"Yeah. It was too much." John shook his head tiredly. "At the time I wasn't thinking of anything but trying to keep them safe, and killing the thing that destroyed my wife."

"That's an interesting summation, John." It tilted its head to one side, watching him. "Alright, I'm gonna let that one go for the moment. Did you know that Dean is terrified that everyone will leave him? Seems that since his mother died, he's had a quite a few people he cared about either kick the bucket or just disappear – like Valentina and Geny, and Bobby and more recently Sam … and a girl, Cassie. Did you know about that, John?"

"Yeah, I knew."

"But you didn't talk to him about it? Didn't tell him that none of it was his fault? Didn't do the fatherly thing and share the burdens?"

John felt guilt rising in him again. "I did try to talk about it, but he didn't want to."

"John! Listen to yourself! Your son needed to talk about this stuff, because it's eating him alive, but he doesn't know how to talk about it, doesn't even know how to think about it. Why? Because for years you've been shoving him full of lessons on how not to deal with things, how not to talk about things and how to push it all down and hide it away!"

He let his head drop down to his chest. Had he done that? Had he taught Dean that he didn't want to know what was hurting him? He couldn't talk to his sons about Mary or the demon or what had been done to Sam … had his reticence flowed onto Dean, making it impossible for him to deal with the losses, with his pain?

"Waiting for an answer, John."

"I didn't mean to do that," he said softly. "That's not what I was trying to do."

"Well, apparently that's what you've done. No good crying over it now, it's too late for apologies and it's too late to make it better. You'll both just have to die knowing that you didn't love him enough to teach him how to let things go."

"Fuck you." John raised his head.

"Don't tempt me with suggestions, John." It smiled suddenly, a wide, lewd smirk that made John's stomach heave at the thought. He looked away.

"This poor guy has been trying to be like you his whole life. His desire to please you rules his life, he doesn't make a decision that he thinks you'd disapprove of. I can't imagine why you would generate loyalty like this, given the way things have turned out. But there it is, love is the most inexplicable thing about humans. You'll sacrifice anything to it, even yourselves."

The shifter rolled onto one knee, leaning close. "He takes on responsibility for everything, John – for the mistakes he's made, and the ones you've made, even the ones that other people have made – and I can't think why that would be. So tell me, why does he do that?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Or you don't care?" It reached out and gripped his face, lifting it to look into his eyes. "You really don't know, John?"

"No."

"He wants you to love him, to be proud of him, John." It shook its head sadly. "He craves those things from you, everything he does revolves around them. How can you, his father, not know that about him?"

John stared at it, his face twisting in anguish. "I do love him. I am proud of him."

Its eyebrows shot up. "Well, just between you and me, Dean hasn't gotten that from you. He lives in the past a lot, the past of his mistakes and your rejections. That's what he remembers, not the occasional pat on the back you've deigned to hand out infrequently, but the rage and the doubts you cast on him when things went wrong. He even thinks you love his brother more than you do him. Even when you and Sam were fighting, and he was stuck in between you, trying to mediate, trying to make it work, he believed that he was the one who had failed you."

John felt his chest tightening unbearably. He wouldn't break down in front of this thing. He closed his eyes, swallowing against the prick of the tears behind them, and struggled with the feelings that were flooding through him, that were going to unman him and bring him down. He thought – he'd thought that Dean understood how he felt, that he couldn't do without his eldest son, that he relied on him for everything, that his love was felt.

He didn't see the shifter leaning close to him, staring at the pain that was written over his face and throughout his body, trying to fathom where the emotion was coming from, how it manifested so suddenly through such a simple combination of words.

* * *

The rope parted and Dean leaned back against the rock, uncaring of the cuts he was getting with each change in position. He wasn't cold any more, that was something, he thought as another trickle of sweat slid down his temple and dripped off his jaw. He worked his hands slowly apart, feeling the loops easing off. Once he could turn one hand, the rest fell clear and he brought his arms around his chest slowly, letting the muscles contract gently. They felt stiff and sore, but nothing worse. He'd be able to use them in a few minutes.

He had no doubt that the shifter was hunting Dad. He didn't know where he was or how to get from here to where he'd been taken. He'd figure it out once he got moving, he thought. The shifter had been gone for over an hour and he hadn't heard a sound through the tunnels. He wasn't sure what that meant.

When his fingers stopped tingling, he leaned forward and started working on the knots that bound his ankles. His thumb had stopped bleeding. He could still feel an occasional trickle from the deeper cut in his back, but he thought that would probably stop soon too. Urgency throbbed in his head, driven by the fear of what the shifter had done to his father, but he worked slowly, methodically, knowing that he couldn't go any faster, that he needed to be careful and precise to do the job properly.

* * *

It watched the man in front of it irritably. Grief was a difficult emotion to elicit through torture – most torture – but it was one of the most important to the human state. Grief and regret and remorse went hand in hand, and those were the things it couldn't feel in itself, couldn't generate a good facsimile of. John Winchester had plenty to spare, but it still couldn't see how or understand exactly why it was being produced.

It thought of other options, other emotions that it needed to be able to copy more accurately. Shame was one. Closely related to guilt, which it didn't understand at all, shame was a powerful emotion in the human lexicon and one that was easy to induce. Joy and love and forgiveness … those it thought it would never be able to get … at least not until it was a lot more adept at reproducing enough humanity to enable proper interaction with people. They were impossible to torture out of someone, and despite its years of study, it couldn't yet get close enough to people to convince them that it was human in a relationship. Somehow, they always knew that they weren't looking at the real deal. It didn't know how they knew and the anger that rose when their faces twisted into disgust usually meant that they didn't live long enough to tell it.

"He really does have an extraordinary capacity for self-loathing, John," it said, walking around the bound man as it sorted through what it'd picked up from his son's memories.

"If he died tomorrow – or today – he feels that it wouldn't be important, that no one would really care. I'm guessing that had to come from you, since he believes his mother was perfect. I have his memories, in here," it tapped the side of its head, "and I remember the four year old, playing on the grass at the front of the house in Lawrence, toy soldiers having a hell of a battle out there. That little boy was secure and loved and happy. He didn't understand what happened the night his mother died, he still doesn't understand what happened, really. He remembers being left alone with Sammy, having to remember to keep the door locked and the special code for the phone, and eating crap out of cans and boxes because there was no one to cook properly for them. He remembers crying for hours at a time because his mother was gone and his father was too busy to be with him, and he tried to look after his brother, but sometimes Sammy was naughty or sick or just tired and he didn't know what to do."

John listened to it, knowing that it was all true, knowing that he'd fucked up in the most unimaginable way. He knew why Dean felt so alone and so unloved. He had let the hunt take his son's childhood as surely as the demon had. He hadn't thought of how it would mould the boy, when he'd laid the first burden on him. He'd just been relieved that he could trust in Dean to do the job he'd been given. And through the years, Dean had done his job and become his lieutenant, and sometimes he'd managed to forget that he was still just a boy, and his son, and he'd put the hunt first.

"Why does he feel so worthless, John? Why doesn't he believe that he's important? To you? To his brother? To himself?"

"Because I didn't tell him enough," John admitted, feeling the despair in his heart seeping into his voice. "I thought he knew."

"Because you didn't make it clear?"

"Yeah." He looked into the face that wasn't his son, no matter how much it looked like him. "I didn't make it clear how much he meant to me. I relied on him, I leaned on him. But I didn't tell him."

"You know it's too late."

"Is it?"

"Of course." It smiled suddenly, the wide open smile that he hardly ever saw anymore. "I had no idea how effective the whole father/son thing could be, John. The sheer level of emotion that can be generated between you. By the time I'm finished, you'll be ready to kill yourself. And then I can do it all over again with Dean. He probably won't last as long as you. He tries hard, I'll give him that, but there's a part of him that's been ready to give up for years now."

John felt the grey and clinging desolation that had been fogging his mind shift abruptly. He would be damned to Hell before he let this thing torture Dean, to crawl inside his son's mind and chew and gnaw at it until he broke.

_Think, you weak bastard_, he thought viciously to himself, _what have you got that's going to get those cuffs unlocked?_

"As a matter of fact, it's probably a good time to go and revisit your son for a quick talk." It stepped back as John lunged toward, caught short by the handcuffs holding his arms, and laughed at the expression of murderous rage on the man's face. "Oh, it won't be the final dialogue, sweetie, just a little taste-test, so to speak."

* * *

Dean rubbed the deep impressions in the skin above his ankles absently as he looked around the bare chamber. The flashlight was there, that was a start. Clothes would be handy, but the shifter was wearing his. He rolled forward onto his hands and straightened up, feeling the cold stiffness in his lower body. Walking around the column, he saw the two tunnel openings. The one to the left was still, the one on the right still channelled that slight air, smelling fresh and with a hint of salt. Leading to the outside, he thought again. Not the way he wanted to go right now. He stood in front of them and looked from one to the other. If the shifter used the other tunnel, he could easily be trapped by it again. If he took the right hand tunnel and it did lead him outside, he'd either have to go back to their original entrance point, or return here. He turned and entered the left tunnel, ducking his head slightly as he felt his hair brush the rock above him. The flashlight was heavy in his hand, it would serve as a weapon in a pinch, although not one that could kill his target.

He'd made about two hundred yards when he saw the square hole in the floor ahead of him. A way down … to where? He leaned through it, shining the flashlight over the tunnel below. It looked familiar, though he really couldn't be sure it was the same tunnel as the one he'd been taken from. His ears picked up a sound, and he switched off the light, holding his breath as he listened.

The scrape of a boot over gravel. In this tunnel. He reversed his position fast, swinging his legs into the hole and letting himself drop into the tunnel, landing on his feet and one hand, the other holding the flashlight tightly against his chest so there would be no possibility of it bumping the rock and making a sound. He pressed himself hard against the wall in the blackness and listened as the footsteps passed the hole and continued on.

Not daring to turn on the flashlight, he moved slowly forward, one hand running lightly along the wall beside him, his bare feet silent over the rough stone.

* * *

John felt around the cuffs of his jacket. _Yes, there it was_.

After Boston, he'd threaded wire through the cuffs and hems of all his coats, just a precaution for the future. The future had come quicker than he'd expected. He twisted his hand, feeling for the hook at the end, his fingers cramping and slipping as he pushed himself back against the column, trying to get more room, more leverage. _Slow is fast_, he remembered Caleb's mantra. Slow is fast, and he shut out the pain and grief and guilt, narrowing the point of his concentration down to his finger and thumb, feeling for the hook, grasping it, and pulling the wire gently from the seam.

He let out his breath as he felt it come out smoothly, relaxing for a moment.

_Now_, he thought dourly, _let's see how good you are at doing this blind, in reverse and with your stupid hand_.

* * *

The shifter came into the chamber ready to do some serious work on Dean, and stared at the empty pillar in disbelief. Sonofabitch had a lot more determination than it'd given him credit for, it thought, looking down at the bloody edge of the stone and the sawn-through ropes that were scattered beneath it.

All was not lost. Dean was wandering around in the maze, naked and defenceless, and in the dark, it guessed, in more ways than one. Even if by some chance he actually found his father's cell, it could still make this work to its advantage if it could get there first. It turned around and ran back up the tunnel.

* * *

John bent the wire into the well-known configuration of a handcuff key by touch, and felt for the lock of the cuffs, closing his eyes and pouring his will into getting this right.

After a moment, the wire slid into the hole, and he could feel the shape of the lock through the wire and through his fingertips. He took a deep breath, deliberately relaxing his shoulders and chest. It took a little fiddling and tension transferred easily down the arms to the fingers which made the whole process take that much longer. He felt for the direction of the cuff and added pressure, slowly but steadily. The lock moved down and the cuff sprang open.

The second cuff was simple, now that it was in front of him. He rubbed his wrists, and started to work at the knots of the rope binding his legs.

* * *

Dean moved as carefully as he could, fighting against the urgency that was growing in him. He wouldn't do anyone any good if he fell and broke his leg, he told himself, placing each foot carefully in front of the other. And the shifter hadn't seemed to be in a hurry to kill them, far from it. He thought it would want to take a long time with them, get its fill. So he had time. He pushed away the thought of his father in pain, being tortured.

Somewhere above him he heard a faint noise, a rhythmic beat muffled through the rock. He froze against the wall and waited. It faded away slowly. The shifter? Moving through the tunnels? If it had already returned and found him gone … he shook his head. If it had found him gone, it would be looking for him, all the more reason to keep going.

He followed the twist of the tunnel and stared ahead. His eyes, used to the blackness of the tunnel now, narrowed at the thin gleam of light on the stone. Moving forward cautiously, he realised that he could almost see the shape of the walls now.

* * *

"Dad?"

John's head snapped up at the sound of Dean's voice. Dean … or the shifter? He wondered warily. He pulled at the last loop of the rope, and kicked his foot free of it, putting his hand back against the column behind him, bracing himself as he stood.

"Dad?" It was just a whisper, not even raising an echo in the narrow tunnels. John moved to the wall, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. The shifter had taken his gun and the silver knife. He'd seen Dean's gun and knife on it as well.

"Dad, where are you?" The thready call came again, from the tunnel the shifter had disappeared down. John inched along the wall, closer to the entrance. He was about halfway around the circular chamber, when he heard the scuff and clatter of loose rock at the other tunnel, the one he'd come in through. He turned and stared as Dean's head appeared around the corner.

"Dad!" Dean kept his voice low, but he couldn't hide the relief in it.

John's face tightened as he looked at him, taking in the bleeding wounds in his son's feet and hands, the deep and livid impressions on his wrists and ankles. He moved back along the wall fast, looking into his son's eyes. Dean's gaze was moving over his father as well, checking for injuries. His brows drew together fast as he noticed the black-edged hole in the shoulder of his father's coat, the red stain surrounding it. Reaching out, he turned him gently to look for the exit wound. John's mouth tucked in slightly, hiding his relieved smile at the proprietary care.

When the green eyes looked back up into John's, Dean's shoulders sagged slightly, seeing his father's concern in them. John felt his own relief, reinforced by the sight of his son's face. In the eyes of the man in front of him, he could still see the four-year old boy who'd put all his faith in him, looking out.

He leaned close to Dean, his voice a breath against his ear. "Shifter's in the tunnel opposite, calling for me. It's got both our guns and the knives. Stay behind the column. We'll have to jump it when it comes through the opening."

Dean nodded, moving straight past him to the centre of the chamber, setting his shoulder against the column. John walked quickly to the other tunnel, and put his back against the wall next to the opening.

"Dean! I'm here." He kept his voice low, projecting it a little into the opening.

"Dad, where?" The whisper came back down the tunnel, the tone a mix of relief, doubt and fear. It was exactly the way his son would have responded. He pushed away his doubt.

"Can you see the light?" he called softly again.

"Yeah." The voice was closer and John tensed, looking at the column. He couldn't see his son on the other side, and hoped that the shifter wouldn't be able to either. It came out of the darkness slowly, carefully, naked and with contusions around its wrists and ankles.

John stared at it, his mind blanking out. His son's head turned to him, his expression lost and vulnerable, dissolving into relief as he met his father's gaze.

"Dad, god I thought it had killed you." It stepped toward him.

Dean stepped out from behind the column and launched himself at it, wrapping his arms hard around its shoulders, pinning its arms to its sides, the flashlight falling to the rock floor with a clatter. "Dad! Help me."

John stared at them as they struggled, unable to tell now which one was his son, which was the impostor. He slid past them, moving up the tunnel. If the shifter had come down this way it must have shed Dean's clothes somewhere close – clothes and weapons. He moved as fast as he could through the tunnel, his hand on one wall, following the first bend. He stepped onto something soft, and knelt down, feeling through the clothes for the guns that had to be there. The smooth inset ivory in the grip of Dean's Colt was unmistakable under his fingertips and he grabbed it, grateful for its weight in his hand. He felt through the clothes again, until his hand touched what he was looking for. Picking it up awkwardly with the same hand, he turned and followed the reflected light back to the chamber.

The candlelight gleamed on identical bodies as Dean and the shifter struggled to get an advantage over the other. Dean couldn't think of how to convince his father that it was him; the thing he was fighting had all of his memories, all of his experiences. He slammed his foot into the side of its knee and saw it ride the blow, letting the leg give and shifting its weight onto the foot, exactly as he would have done.

"Stop." John's voice thundered in the small chamber and they both froze, pulling away from each other and straightening to look at him.

He threw the slim knife to the floor in front of them, the silver blade winking as it hit the ground.

"Dean, pick it up."

Without hesitation, Dean dove for the knife, and the shifter pivoted and ran for the other tunnel. The gun's retort filled the chamber like canon-fire, the bullet drilling through the back, passing through the heart and punching out through the ribs on the other side. The shifter dropped in the entrance to the tunnel, dead before it hit the ground.

* * *

Dean buttoned up his shirt, wincing as the fabric scraped over the cut on his back. He glanced at his father, who was leaning against the wall of the chamber, his head tipped back and eyes closed. John had said very little since they'd pulled the body back into the chamber and retrieved his clothes.

He picked up his jacket, pulling it on. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." John didn't move or open his eyes.

"We gotta get you to a hospital."

"Yeah." He still couldn't move the lower half of his right arm. Taking out the shifter, a heart shot on a moving target with his left hand, had been nothing short of miraculous. He could feel Dean's eyes on him, the worry radiating out from his son. He didn't know how to start the conversation that he desperately wanted to have with him. The conversation where he could somehow make the wrongs of the years disappear. Nothing was that easy.

"You ready?" Dean walked up to him.

John opened his eyes and straightened up, pushing back off the wall with his working arm. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to rub the tension away.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

* * *

_**Quacumquasit Pond, Massachusetts. 2 months later.**_

The pond was still, mirroring the pink and gold and mauve tinged ragged clouds above. John sat on the end of the small dock, his back against the pile, the fishing rod held lightly in one hand.

He'd been through three rounds of surgery for the bullet, the doctors reattaching the nerves and trying to get him as much range of movement back as they could. They hadn't done a bad job. He didn't have the very fine motor skills in that hand anymore, but he could shoot, and lift and hold, and that was good enough. He'd become fairly capable with his left hand now as well. He just needed some time to heal up, then get everything back into good working order.

Dean had found this place, a monthly off-season rental right on the edge of the lake. It was quiet and peaceful and protected, about as good as you could want for R&R.

He could feel his son's confusion and worry from time to time, knew Dean was sensing the lack of purpose that had filled his father since they'd come up from under the ground. He didn't know how to explain it to him. Didn't even know how to start a conversation that could lead to an explanation. He wanted to … but every time he tried to start, his throat would close up and the words stopped.

He felt the vibrations through the boards of footsteps on the dock, and turned his head slightly, seeing Dean walking toward him, a couple of bottles of beer dangling from one hand.

"Hey." Dean passed him a bottle and settled himself on the other side, his back against the opposite pile.

"Hey. Thanks." He gripped the rod between his knees and twisted off the top, swallowing a mouthful before setting it into the boards beside him.

"Having any luck?"

"With the fish? No." John shrugged. "Hope you weren't expecting fish for dinner."

Dean snorted. "Uh, no. I pulled a couple of steaks from the freezer."

John nodded. The silence grew between them as the light started to fade from the sky.

"What did it … do to you, Dad?" Dean looked at the water, where the line disappeared beneath the incrementally darkening surface.

John closed his eyes. "Nothing, Dean."

"C'mon. Don't shut me out, not like this." He looked at his father's profile, thinner now, the bones more prominent. "You're not … you haven't been … the same. Since then."

"I'm just tired, Dean."

"Bullshit." He stared at John in frustration. "I'm sorry, but that's just bullshit. You aren't tired, you're … beaten … somehow."

John shrugged. He _was_ tired. Tired of his mistakes. Tired of his decisions and where they'd led. Tired of struggling on and on and getting nowhere and destroying his family in the process. Tired.

"It said it wanted emotions. That's why it tortured people, to get their emotions."

John turned his head to look at him. "Yeah, well it should have gotten its fill from me."

Dean frowned at him. "Why? What does that mean?"

"It means that I can't talk about this, son." He looked back at the line. "I'm okay, alright? But I can't tell you … I can't talk about it."

_It wasn't alright. It was a long fucking way from being anywhere near alright. What the fuck had that thing done to him?_ Dean thought furiously. He'd never seen his father so without purpose, without a plan, without determination. It was as if … he hesitated to even think it … as if the shifter had cut out his heart, somehow. And that scared the crap out of him.

He finished his beer, trying to think of some way to get the man opposite to talk to him. Their relationship had always been filled with holes and boundaries, things they could discuss and things they couldn't. This was different. He'd always known that his father had enough strength for the both of them, before. Now he wasn't sure. And he was scared that maybe he was going to have to have that strength now, to carry them through whatever this was. He didn't think he did.

He got up, looking down at John. "I'll, uh, get the food going in an hour or so, okay?"

"Sure." John kept his gaze on the water, on the line. "I'll be in by then."

"Okay." Dean walked down the dock, the empty bottle in his hand.

John sighed softly. He thought he'd have to find another way to handle this. He'd wanted to talk about what the shifter had said to him. And what he'd realised as a result. He'd thought that he could repair at least some of the damage he'd done that way. But when it came down to it, he couldn't stand vulnerable in front of his son. Couldn't peel away the layers of protection he'd built over himself to keep his fear and doubt and pain away from them. Maybe he'd able to one day. Maybe not. He didn't know.

What he did know was that Dean was too sensitive to him, picked up on things too easily. He'd have to figure out what to do about that.

* * *

_Camouflage is a game we all like to play, but our secrets are as surely revealed by what we want to seem to be, as by what we want to conceal.  
~ Russell Lynes_


	29. Chapter 29 Cobwebs and Strange

**Chapter 29 Cobwebs and Strange**

* * *

_**October 26, 2005. New Orleans.**_

Dean shifted slightly in the chair, pressing the phone more tightly to his ear as a crackle almost drowned out his father's words.

"Say again?" He closed his eyes, shutting out the distracting view of the square, filled with people and movement, bright with the morning sunshine.

"How was getting into the city?" John's voice was suddenly loud and clear again.

"Fine. I didn't bring the car in, it's still kind of iffy around here. But the older parts weren't flooded." He shrugged. He'd brought his gear over the Crescent City bridge on foot, not knowing exactly what it would be like in the city, not wanting to risk her to looters or vandals.

"Good. What have you found?"

"Not much so far. A lot of people who are scared to talk." He frowned at the pavement under his feet. "This isn't voodoo, Dad, at least not the way it's usually practised. It's a lot more powerful for one thing."

"What are you thinking?" The crackle was back, almost obscuring the words.

"I don't know." He chewed on the corner of his lip. "I've got a few people to see this afternoon. I'll know more after that. But this queen, she's only been around for about five years."

"That's unlikely," John said thoughtfully. "Maybe, come in from somewhere else?"

"No signs of that. I checked around with Mali in Baton Rouge, and Claude in Lafayette – they've never heard of her, I even checked with Roswell in Haiti and no one there's ever heard of her either. It's like she just dropped in from nowhere." He sighed. "There's something else. I think another hunter might be working this gig."

"Why?"

"A few people mentioned being questioned by someone else." He looked around. "The situation is still pretty confused here, it could have been a cop, or a gang member – I don't know, but it sounded to me like hunter questions."

"See what you can find out. I'd feel better if you had back up there anyway."

Dean wrinkled his nose, leaning back in the chair. "I'm fine. But yeah, I'll check. What about yours? Anything coming up on the missing men?"

"I've got a couple of possibilities; I'll know more after I've talked to someone."

"If there is another hunter here, I could leave this job to them, come up and help?" Dean leaned forward again.

"No need." John's voice started to break up again. "I think I've got it covered. And Dean, if there's another hunter there, you …try …them –"

"Dad, you're breaking up." He heard the solid tone in his ear and looked at the phone in disgust, closing it and shoving it back in his pocket.

He loved New Orleans and normally he'd be dragging this case out for all it was worth, just to stay longer. But after Katrina the joy had gone out of the city, and the anger and despair he'd seen here wasn't making working the case any easier. Two days he'd been here already and half the people he needed to see were either gone or had clammed up, the fear in their eyes making him uneasy.

He finished his coffee and stood up, walking across the square and downriver toward Dumaine Street. The other hunter, and he was almost certain it _was_ another hunter, had beaten him to the last three informants. He needed to get ahead of them if he was going to find out anything worthwhile before the whole community stopped talking.

As strange as it was not having his wheels with him, he was at least in the one city where walking was easy, and the territory he needed to cover was packed tightly into a couple of square miles. The breeze from the river took the edge off the still-warm October sunshine, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, lengthening his stride as he turned onto Decatur.

* * *

The room was large and bare of furniture, the centre taken up by a parterre, the offering to the spirits, a large square white cloth spread over the floor, covered by dishes of food, bowls of liquid, flowers and herbs and coins, held at the corners by four candles, all red. Seated around the walls of the room, the supplicants were praying.

"Yes, I have heard of this one." The man spoke softly, glancing at the parterre and gesturing to a door further down the hallway. "Not here, I do not want to contaminate this room with this talk."

Dean followed him down the hallway and they went into an ordinary sitting room in the family's area of the house.

"She is calling herself Antoinette Chaigneau. Two of my congregation have been to seen her." He shook his head. "The first wanted a charm, for love. She gave it to him and the woman he loved died two days later. The second … I have not seen since she went."

"The love charm, you think it backfired?" Dean frowned at him. The man shook his head.

"All things must be paid for – through prayer or sacrifice or action. I do not think this was paid for, and when the spirit came to it, it took the woman as the price."

"What kind of ritual or power could do this?"

"I do not know. Nothing that is in voodoo." He looked at Dean, dark eyes uncertain, and fearful. "The most powerful spells are still prayers. They do not compel the spirits, they _demander_ … uh, ask for what is required."

"Can I have the names and addresses of the people who went to see her?" Dean pulled out a notebook and pen.

"You can. I do not think it will do you any good." He shrugged. "Marcus Baigaille, Apartment 3, 206 North Rampart. And Chevonne Martinique, 202 Iberville, riverside in Storeyville."

"Thanks." Dean started to turn away. "Uh, one more thing. Anyone else been asking questions about this queen lately?"

"_Oui_, a woman was here yesterday." He spread his hands. "She said she was a policewoman."

"What did she look like?"

"Uh, tall, thin. Long hair, dark blonde, blue eyes. _Attrayant_ … pretty."

Dean nodded, and walked back down the hall, squeezing out past more of the congregation who'd arrived on the steps.

He looked at the addresses. Storeyville. It was a half mile's walk. He'd have lunch first.

* * *

Dean had just turned the corner onto Iberville Street when he saw the woman walking briskly down the steps and turning away from him. Tall, thin, long blonde hair loose down her back, wearing a dark blue suit; it had to be her, he thought. He started to walk faster, then slowed again as she stopped by a late-model compact, unlocking it, getting in and pulling away. He stepped out into the street and caught the plate number as the small car sped away from him.

He looked at the house she'd come out of. Chevonne Martinique's house. Walking up the steps, he knocked hard on the brightly painted door, waiting for a minute before trying again. _No one home, or no one alive at home?_

The woman had come out of this house, he was sure of it. He looked around, feeling exposed, and pulled out his picks. Setting the wrench at the bottom of the lock, he slipped the pick over it and started lifting the pins. The lock opened and he walked in, tucking the picks back in his jacket pocket as he closed the door behind him. The house was silent and he walked down the side hall, checking each of the rooms as he passed them. Nothing was disturbed. He checked the yard at the rear then went up the stairs, careful to keep his hands away from the surfaces and touching the door knobs only through the edge of his jacket.

The upstairs rooms were as undisturbed as those below, and he weighed his options as walked slowly down the stairs. He needed to see Marcus Baigaille. The man had at least seen Chaigneau, had seen first hand the effect of the charm she'd given him.

Closing the door behind him and wiping over the knob, he turned north and headed toward Rampart Street, wondering if he would again be too late to catch up with the woman. He doubted very much that the police had anyone to spare to work a voodoo case in New Orleans right now, their hands full with the destruction of the city and the rising crime.

* * *

The apartment building was quiet, most of the residents still at work, he thought, moving down the dimly lit wide hallway to the rear. Apartment 3 was on the back north eastern corner, originally a large apartment that had been divided into several smaller ones. He raised his hand to knock on the door, when he saw it was very slightly ajar.

Pulling the automatic from his pocket, he moved to the hinge side of the door and pushed it open, crossing to the wall on the other side of the door as he pulled it closed again and checked behind it. The door had opened into a small living room, sparsely furnished and painted white. A narrow hallway led from it to the rest of the apartment.

He moved silently to the hall, and stopped again, listening. The tick of a clock, somewhere down the hall was very loud. Under it, he could hear the hum of the fridge, and the languid whir of a fan, possibly in the next room. He walked down the hall and pushed the first door he came to, his nose registering the faint sweet scent of the beginnings of decomposition as it swung wide.

Marcus Baigaille lay on the double bed, his skin a mottled purple-grey, his face held in a rictus of fear, the eyes open and staring. Above the bed the wide-bladed fan turned slowly.

Dean looked around the room slowly, not focussing on anything in particular, letting his gaze take in the details of the room without emphasis. On the ornate dressing table between the tall windows, a glass lay on its side, the contents had spilled out and the pool of drying liquid looked dark and sticky, several insects already trapped in it. On the floor to one side, a bottle of dark rum was also on its side, unbroken, with the lid screwed on. A jacket had been tossed onto the delicate chaise-longe in the corner of the room. A briefcase stood next to the door. He crouched down, looking at a line of powder that had been spilled along the threshold. It was dark grey. He touched his fingertip to it, bringing it to his nostrils and smelling it warily. Earth. Blood, maybe, he thought, brows drawing together. Goofer dust?

He straightened up and was about to take a step into the room when he heard the slight sound. Barely a whisper, of fabric sliding over fabric. He stilled, gaze sharpening as he scanned the room again. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the slight bulge at the base of the heavy curtains beside the left hand window. Stepping into the room, he caught the edge of the door and closed it behind him, the latch clicking as it slid home. The bulge in the curtain moved fractionally.

He took two long strides and grabbed the curtain, yanking it down over the person he could feel hiding within it. A knife blade slid through the material, grazing the back of his wrist and he swore, his arm tightening around the lump he was holding, resting the barrel of his automatic against what he thought was their back.

"Give it up," he grunted as the lump thrashed inside the curtain. "I'm so not in the mood for this."

He cocked the gun, the small sound loud in the room and felt the person subside within the fabric. Gripping an edge of the curtain, he rose and stepped back, the gun aimed as he pulled the curtain away.

On the floor, looking up at him, was the woman he'd been chasing. Long, dark blonde hair, streaked with lighter strands, fell over her shoulders, framing an oval face with fair skin, almond-shaped blue eyes and full-lipped mouth, now partly open as she panted with the exertion of the last few minutes.

"Who the hell are you?" She put her hand back against the wall behind her and got to her feet, kicking the heavy curtain away.

Dean levelled the gun at her. "That was my question."

She licked her lips, looking down at the barrel. "Annie Hawkins, I'm a reporter for the Times-Picayune."

"Right." His mouth twisted slightly as he shook his head. "Let's see your press pass."

She looked at him mulishly for a moment, then sighed. "Alright. I'm not a reporter."

He smiled. "Glad we got that out of the way."

"Who are you, anyway?"

He looked at her consideringly for a long moment. There wasn't much to be gained from dragging out the process. "Dean Winchester."

He saw her eyes widen slightly at the name and felt his curiosity rise.

"You any relation to John Winchester?" she asked slowly.

"My Dad." He nodded. "How do you know him?"

"He got me out of a tricky situation a couple of years ago." She looked down, brushing the dirt from her clothes. "He didn't say he had family."

"He's not the sharing type." Dean looked around the room again. "This seems to be a dead-end. What have you found out about Antoinette Chaigneau?"

She laughed, looking up at him from under her brows. "So now we're partners?"

"Not if you'd prefer to work alone," he said easily, his gaze steady on hers. "This seems like a job where it might be good to have someone watching your back."

"Yeah, okay, you got a point there." She looked at the man on the bed. "He's been dead for at least a day. You can see the marks on his throat, and the petechial haemorrhaging in his eyes. He was strangled."

"Must have been someone big, even catching him off guard." He gestured to the glass and bottle. "The lock on the front door, it was pulled out."

She nodded. "I saw Marcus two days ago. He was terrified. He was going to leave, go up to Baton Rouge for a while."

"Have you actually seen this chick? This Antoinette, who's calling herself a voodoo queen?" Dean leaned close to the man on the bed, looking at the long scratches in his forearms, frowning. Either his assailant was a man who'd forgotten to cut his nails, or a very big woman. The cuts were narrow and deep, almost like claws.

"No. She lives in the Garden District, Coliseum and Sixth, opposite Lafayette cemetery." Annie shook her hair back from her face. "She's not a voodoo queen, Dean. Not in the true sense of the word."

"No, this isn't voodoo," he agreed absently, straightening up and looking back at her. "Let's get out of here, and we can bring each other up to speed on what we've learned, alright?"

"I haven't eaten all day, can we do that over a meal?" She turned to look at herself briefly in the mirror above the dressing table, one hand lifting to push back a few errant strands of hair from her face, and he saw the small revolver tucked into the shoulder holster under her jacket.

"Definitely."

* * *

"They look like snot." Dean wrinkled his nose at the platter of oysters on the half-shell in front of Annie. She laughed.

"They're delicious. Try one."

"Not if you paid me." He picked up his poboy and took a bite, still staring uneasily at the plate.

"They're an aphrodisiac, you know," she said, picking one up and slurping it off the shell.

"That I don't need." He looked at her, lifting a brow with a slow smile.

She shrugged and picked up the delicate stemmed wineglass. "If you say so."

He chewed slowly, watching her. She was older, not by too much, he thought, her skin smooth and pale, lightly sprinkled with freckles. On the short drive to Bourbon Street, she'd told him that she'd gotten into hunting when her family had moved into a house that had been haunted. She'd been the only survivor. He couldn't see the scarring that must have left, she kept it buried very deeply. Every hunter he'd met had a similar story, similar but different. All of them amounted to one thing – a knowledge that most people didn't have, and an acute sense of revenge that drove them on. He shrugged inwardly. He was no different.

"Antoinette Chaigneau doesn't exist, by the way." Annie tossed down another oyster, and looked at him. "She appeared in New Orleans suddenly five years ago, claiming to be the descendent of Marie Laveau and Jacques Paris, Laveau's husband. A load of crap, because Laveau didn't have children with Paris, only with her plaçage lover, Christophe de Glaphion." She pulled out a notebook from her jacket pocket. "Around the same time as Chaigneau appeared, there was a reported disappearance of a young woman in the Ninth Ward – a Marie Ramsey, originally from Chicago, moved to New Orleans with her mother when she was three."

"You think that she took a new name and became a voodoo queen?" Dean stopped chewing.

"I think that maybe she found something, something that gave her power, and she decided to quit being a nobody in a poor part of town and become someone else."

"Found something … like what?"

"Like an object, maybe." Annie shrugged. "I don't know. What I do know is that you don't become a voodoo queen with the sort of power she's been using, in five years."

"True." He finished the sandwich and picked up his beer. "Alright. Say she found something … what do we know about what she's been doing?"

"Aside from the charms and potions and hexes she's been handing out, there are rumours of people disappearing around her place. Servants, homeless people, prostitutes … people who aren't likely to be missed too quickly. She's supposedly responsible for a number of death curses, but of course there's no corroborating evidence, just more rumour. There's also a rumour that she called the hurricane. I don't know how much faith to put in that. Ostensibly, she had a falling out with a man she was seeing and she called it to destroy his business and his home in Metairie."

"A category five hurricane to destroy a business? Seems a bit … much." Dean leaned back in his chair. "It destroyed the city, that can't have been the plan?"

"No. That's why I'm not sure about it. The storm was predicted well in advance anyway." Annie slurped up the last oyster and finished her wine. "The question is, how do we find out whatever it is that's giving her this power, and put a stop to it?"

"Yeah. That's the question." He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. "We'll have to go and take a look at her place."

"Not sure we'll see anything of use just by looking." She looked down at the table. "I've had a look at the place, it's locked up tight. Practically screams '_go away_'."

He looked at her sharply. "Walking in without knowing anything about it isn't a smart thing to do."

"No, but maybe I could see if I could get a reading, or buy a charm …" she trailed off as she realised that wouldn't float in this situation. "All right, you're right. We'll look first." She put her napkin down and stood up. "When did you have in mind?"

"Now." Dean stood as well, looking around for the waiter. He caught his eye and nodded and the man came over with the check.

"Could we have two more poboys to go, please?" Annie looked at the waiter as he handed Dean the check. "Sorry to be a bother."

"No bother, ma'am. It'll be a few minutes." He took the check back and walked to the bar.

"You still hungry?" Dean looked down at her curiously.

She smiled. "You haven't been to the Garden District, have you?"

He shook his head.

"No convenience stores there, unless you go up to St Charles. If we're staking her out, then I'd rather have food on hand."

He raised a brow and nodded. His own philosophy. "Fair enough."

* * *

Annie drove him back to his hotel first and Dean picked up his gear bag, tossing it in the back and getting back into the car.

"One more stop," she said, pulling out and heading downriver, finding a tiny parking spot in front of the narrow sidewall house whose discreet hand-painted sign advertised charms and protection bags. When she came out, she tossed him a small leather bag, tied with a strip of rawhide.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"Just put it in your pocket," she said with a frown as she extricated the car from the slot. "It'll help."

He shrugged and tucked the bag into the inside pocket of his coat, the scent of the herbs and other ingredients rising slowly around him.

* * *

The house stood on the corner, with barely a couple of feet of space between the walls and the sidewalk. Annie drove past slowly and turned right at Seventh, and again at Prytania, pulling in close to the sidewalk and under the deep shade of the trees that lined Sixth Street along the wall of the cemetery.

"This is as close as we'll be able to get in the daytime." She stopped the engine and opened her window, then turned to the backseat and pulled a pair of binoculars from the oversized nylon gym bag that lay on it, passing them to Dean.

He looked through them, his view slightly obscured by the low-hanging branches of the trees ahead of them, and the corner of the wall of the graveyard. He could see most of the windows along the northern wall, and the front door. It would have to do for now. He glanced at the high stone wall of the graveyard.

"We can get closer in there, when it's dark."

"Yeah, but we have to be careful. I think she has some kind of field extending from the house, something that lets her know if someone is watching."

He frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"Because the first night I got into town, I came down here to watch the house and all the lights went off within a minute of me pulling up, and I've had nightmares every night since," she said dryly.

"What kind of nightmares?"

"The kind that scar you for life." She shook her head. "They're not coming from me. I've been using a dreamcatcher and it's helping but they still get through, a bit."

He put the glasses back up to his eyes, rifling through what he knew of projected dreams and the witchcraft needed to do that. Not much, he thought a few minutes later. His father knew about it, he was using a dreamcatcher lately.

* * *

The afternoon passed very slowly. There was very little movement in the area, an occasional tourist, coming or going from the cemetery, even more rarely a car driving slowly past the grand houses. The air was warm and soft, and sweet with the scents of the trees and gardens that lined every street and home. Dean leaned back in the seat, trying to stretch out, or at least get one limb stretched out, the small car restricting him every way he turned.

"Dean."

He looked at her and sat up. "What?"

She passed him the glasses, her eyes remaining fixed on the figure on the opposite block.

He lifted the binoculars and looked through them, adjusting the focus slightly. The woman who stood on the sidewalk was dark, her skin gleaming like ebony in the sunshine. She was staring back at him, as if she could see him clearly, although the car was parked behind others, in a pool of black shade from the wide-canopied oak that stood next to it. He stared at her face. It was smooth and expressionless, almost like a mannequin. It took him a moment to register exactly what had caused the thread of unease that rose from his gut. Her eyes were utterly empty, the irises bleached out to a shade of grey so pale they seemed to be gone, her pupils tiny pinpoints of darkness in the centres. He moved the glasses from her, panning across Sixth Street to the house of Antoinette Chaigneau. In the upper window of the third floor he caught a movement, the lace curtain twitching slightly. Behind it he could see a shadow.

"Well, that's pretty damned creepy."

"That's Chevonne Martinique," Annie said softly. "What does she look like to you?"

He lowered the glasses and exhaled softly, not wanting to use the word. "She looks like a zombie."

"Yeah." She looked at him. "We're in Louisiana, right? Not Haiti?"

"Yeah." He raised the glasses again, but the woman had gone. "She didn't look dead, either."

"No." Annie shivered involuntarily. "No. She wasn't dead. But I don't think she's still got her soul."

He glanced at her, then at his watch. Almost six-thirty. "Whatever it is, we've been made. We should move."

"Yeah." She straightened up, and turned the key, starting the engine. "Where do you want to go?"

"Just around to the entrance of the cemetery. Park the car out of sight somewhere and get close again on foot. Try and time it for dusk."

"Okay." She pulled out and did a u-turn, unwilling to get any closer to the house, or whatever it was that now inhabited it.

* * *

Clouds had drifted across the wide skies through the day and were now lit up in improbably lurid shades of gold and rose and amethyst as the sun disappeared behind the trees and buildings. Twilight came slowly, filling the streets with a thick mauve shadow that tinted the buildings and roads and trees in the same hue. They ate the sandwiches and went through the gear bags, taking weapons, protective elements, salt and butane.

"Question." Dean looked down into his bag, wondering what else he might need.

"Yeah?" Annie was hunched in the back seat. She had taken off her neat suit and wriggled into jeans and a long dark leather coat. She looked up at him as her fingers finished buttoning up the jeans.

"If whatever it is, is this powerful, how are we going to destroy it?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that." She pulled on boots, discarding the heels. "It depends on what it is. But most things burn, right?"

"Yeah. Most things." He shook his head unhappily.

"Relax. We probably won't get within two hundred yards of her tonight." She gave him a grin as she climbed back into the front seat.

Outside, the streets were dark, the street lamps hidden by the massive trees, so that they cast pools of light underneath them, rather than illuminating the whole length. Dean got out of the car and stood next to the wall of the graveyard. Annie came up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders as he bent, linking his hands under her foot to give her a boost to the top. When she was over, he jumped, catching the top of wall and pulling himself up, rolling over the top of the wall and dropping soundlessly on the other side. The gates were locked at night, and they moved between the tombs and headstones and statues silently, keeping to the shadows of the trees and low buildings as much as possible, working their way south and west toward the corner.

He'd been in a lot of graveyards over the years, had developed an eye for them. This one was probably easy to move through in the day, with plenty of light. It was a nightmare to navigate in the darkness, the tombs and graves and markers close together, the only real paths were too exposed to use, wide paved paths that ran north-south and east-west, crossing in the middle of the cemetery. They had to keep to the walls, out of sight of the three-storey house they were heading for.

About half-way in, the back of his neck began to prickle. He reached forward to touch Annie's arm, drawing her back against the wall next to the overhanging ivy as he scanned the darkness.

He felt her breath against his neck. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head, continuing to stare around. In his peripheral vision he caught a movement, turning his head at the same as he brought up the barrel of the shotgun. The figure moved silently, its eyes fixed on them, the smooth black skin barely reflecting the faint light as it moved closer. Annie's head snapped around as well, and Dean became aware that there were several creatures moving toward them, from all points of the cemetery.

"Crap." He gestured south and Annie moved along the wall, her revolver held in one hand, the other feeling along the wall.

The hand that clasped her wrist was unexpected, cold and horrifyingly strong as she pulled back, stumbling into Dean, the figure that the hand belonged to now emerging from the darkness of the wall, pale eyes with their pinpoint pupils staring at her.

Dean took in the problem fast as Annie backed into him, the gun rose and he fired both barrels into the creature's face. Skin, blood, brain and bone spattered over the ground behind it and the hand dropped off Annie as the body fell to the ground without a sound.

"The tomb!" Dean pointed to the small mausoleum in front of them. "Get inside!"

Annie took a couple of steps forward and fired at the padlock that held the chains closed. She pulled the chains apart as the padlock fell to the ground, pushing hard against the rusting iron doors and shifting them open. Dean was backing toward her, six of the soulless creatures moving toward him unhurriedly. From the corner of her eye, she saw the seventh, the one whose head Dean had blown off, rising as well, much closer than the others.

"DEAN!" It was all she had time for. The creature lunged for her, a gout of dark liquid emerging from the ragged neck, soaking her shirt and jacket as she twisted away, her scream rising in her throat when the liquid soaked through her clothes and began to burn.

The loud retorts of the 9mm automatic filled the quiet streets. Shoving Annie back into the tomb as the impact force of the bullets pushed the creature away from her, Dean used the back of his shoulder to thrust the door wide enough for him to slip through, dropping his gun as he forced it back. On the inside, four long flat bolts had been installed, and he pushed each of them home, securing the door as a fusillade of blows began to pound on it from the outside. It was pitch black inside the tomb and he felt for the flashlight in his pocket, pulling it out and turning it on.

Behind him, on the floor Annie was twisting and moaning, struggling to get her jacket and shirt off as the liquid continued to soak through the layers, charring the fabric while it burned through to her skin.

He dropped beside her, kneeling on the stone floor and pulling the shoulder holster off, ripping the front of the shirt open and dragging it from her arms. He saw a blistering redness where the liquid had managed to get through the two layers. She sat up, then started, looking down at her bra, and the coin-sized spot on it that sent a tendril of pale smoke up as it began to burn through the silk, her fingers frantically reaching around to her back.

Dean slid around her on his knees and unhooked it, and Annie threw it off, her breath ragged as she checked the skin underneath.

"What the fuck was that?" He pulled off his coat, draping it over her shoulders.

"I don't know – it came from the creature's _neck_ – the creature you _blew_ _away_," she told him, her voice cracking as she shivered under the coat.

Sucking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, the shivering decreasing as she shut down her panicked response. The burns on her side were stinging, but thankfully no worse than that.

"It was – like an acid of some kind, it just burned through everything," she said, remembering how fast it'd gone through her coat. Looking down at the half-eaten leather coat, lying on the floor a couple of feet from them, another shiver slid through her as she imagined what her skin would've looked like if she'd left it on.

The pounding on the door stopped, silence dropping over them like a shroud, and they looked at each other, straining to hear any sound from the outside. There was nothing. The same image popped into both of their minds. The zombies or soulless or whatever they were, standing around the door like a bunch of misplaced statues, waiting with the infinite patience of the dead for them to emerge.

"I guess we know what happened to the people who went missing." He looked around the tomb. It was a small rectangular room, the plaques showing those who rested beneath him, stamped iron and screwed to the stone walls. Moving back against one wall, he slid his arm around Annie, drawing her back to sit next to him.

"Yeah." She wrapped her arms around herself under his coat. "I think maybe they are the ones who spotted me, that first night, and let her know. I had no clue there'd be so many of them."

"You okay?" He looked down, unable to see her face, though he could he feel the intermittent tremors that shook her shoulders.

"No." She leaned against him, but didn't look up. "Not really, not at all."

He tightened his arm around her, shifting slightly so that she could lean back against him more comfortably. She turned slightly, letting her cheek rest against his chest, her body heat making up for the use of his coat.

"Well, you were right about not getting any closer tonight. I think we're stuck here for a while," he said, wondering how long that was going to be.

"How did you secure the doors?" She glanced over to them and he lifted the flashlight, showing her the bolts.

"On the inside?" Her eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. Kind of makes you wonder what they knew about the neighbourhood, huh?" He lowered the light, turning it off and leaving them in darkness. No point wasting the batteries.

"We could be stuck here for a while, you know," she said, her voice low. He tipped his head back against the wall.

"Nah, I let off both barrels and about seven shots into that thing. Someone'll call the cops."

She made a noise, somewhere between a snort and a sob. "Not likely. Not now. Not here. You know how thin the cops are in this city right now? And they're not worried about shots fired here. They're too busy dealing with looting and murder in the CBD."

She was right, he realised. Even before Katrina, the city had had the unenviable reputation of having ten times more murders per capita than any other in the country. A few shots fired wouldn't rate.

He couldn't shake the image of the creatures waiting for them outside of the tomb door. "We'll wait until morning. Maybe she'll give 'em something to else to do."

Annie nodded reluctantly. She didn't particularly want to spend the night trapped here, but she couldn't see any other option either.

"Try and get some sleep, Annie," Dean said softly.

She shook her head. "I can't sleep."

He remembered what she'd said about the nightmares and winced inwardly. "How're the burns?"

"They're stinging. Nothing worse." She lifted her head slightly, her hair brushing against his chin. "Tell me about your family. Why'd your dad start hunting?"

Dean closed his eyes. "He didn't tell you?"

"No. There wasn't much time for conversation," she said, belatedly hearing the reluctance in his voice. "Sorry. I'm not trying to dig out old wounds."

"No." He looked down, unable to see a thing, his cheek against her hair. "It's okay. Just, uh, hard to know where to start."

It would pass the time, he thought, tipping his head back against the wall and thinking of what he could say. In the end, he told her a bit about it. The things he could remember. The things that weren't so painful they were buried deep and going to stay that way for good. She listened quietly, not interrupting him, letting it come out at its own speed.

"Sam left four years ago. He's, uh, in college in California."

"That must have been hard for you," she said softly. He hesitated, wondering what he'd said, that she'd drawn that conclusion.

"Yeah, well. He's out now. Safe, I hope. Doing what he wanted to do."

"What about you, Dean? Are you doing what you wanted to do?"

"Yeah," he said, shrugging slightly. At ten and fourteen and sixteen, he'd seen this life as a hero's life. Now, he no longer thought that way, but it was still a life that had meaning, that meant something, he thought. The things he hated, the things that scared him, was losing his family. In the last couple of years, it'd almost happened too many times. "Mostly, I guess."

He felt her shift, sitting up beside him. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, but he felt her breath, against his neck, then his cheek. Her lips touched his, soft and questioning.

For a moment he couldn't respond. He heard the rustle as his coat slithered to the floor, knowing what that meant, but still not quite able to believe it. He pulled from her mouth slightly, his breath ragged.

"Uh …"

"No more words, okay? Just … comfort, in the dark, for both of us." Her voice was barely a whisper.

She leaned forward again, brushing her mouth over his and this time he held her, guiding her over his legs so that she sat facing him on his lap, his hands sliding slowly from her back to her breasts as the kiss became more intense.

Despite an impressive level of experience, he hadn't been with many women older than himself. In point of fact, none. It was a whole different ballgame with her. She whispered to him in the dark, telling him what she wanted him to do to her, telling him what she wanted to do to him, and he could hardly breathe, his heart racing as he felt her touch, her lips and tongue on his skin, directing his hands and mouth over hers, her desire every bit as great as his, her lack of inhibition leading him to deeper pleasure.

He had to fight for control, and very nearly lost it several times, as she took them through a long process of foreplay until he was shaking with the need to be in her, a torment that burned in his groin and spread throughout his body, his nerves twitching and muscles jumping erratically. Then she pulled him down, guiding him inside her and arching against him, starting with an almost unbearable slowness that almost unhinged him, speeding up until he realised that longer, slower, deeper thrusts were taking him there in great leaps instead of the faster but less intense technique he'd been used to. When she came around him, the staccato ripple up him tipped him over and he came with a force he couldn't believe, the groan released with his exhale echoing around the narrow stone room.

* * *

_**October 27**_

He woke stiffly, hips and ribs sore from lying on the stone, his head pillowed against her thigh. Levering himself upright, he felt around for the flashlight, turning it on and pointing it at his watch. Five a.m. Dawn would be soon. He left the flashlight on, pointed at the wall behind them, the reflected light showing her tired smile.

"You didn't sleep?" He knew the answer as soon as he'd asked. She shook her head.

"I dropped off a couple of times, but couldn't stay asleep," she told him lightly. "It's alright, I'll catch up later."

"Annie …" he stopped, unsure of what to say next, what to say about last night.

The smile reappeared, as if she knew what he thinking, why he was hesitating. "Relax. It's just sex, Dean, not love. Not expecting anything from you."

He looked away, nodding. _That put it into perspective, didn't it?_ He wasn't sure what he thought about her matter of fact words. _Another difference between the girls he was used to and the women he suddenly wanted more of, _he wondered?

Getting up slowly, he walked to the door, leaning against it and listening. There wasn't a sound from outside.

"You hear anything, while I was sleeping?" He looked back at her. She shook her head.

"Nothing. Do you think they've gone?"

"I don't know what to think about those things," he admitted, drawing the bars back one by one. He pulled the door open, flinching as it grated loudly across the stone.

The cemetery seemed empty and peaceful, the cool, grey light spreading from the east.

He stepped out, taking his shotgun from Annie and turning around. A slight ground mist rose from the damp soil around their feet, but despite the dew in the night, there were no tracks around the tomb. He nodded to Annie.

She walked out slowly, wearing his shirt now, her own clothing left inside. She looked at the ground and back up at him.

"No tracks."

He nodded. "Time to go."

He turned and she followed him, moving away from the tomb. The hand that dropped onto her shoulder made her jump, her mouth opening to scream a warning to Dean, and a second hand clamping down hard over it. Dean was half-turned when he felt the hands on his arms and shoulders, fingers biting into the flesh like talons. He twisted around, and saw Annie similarly held tight, her gun on the ground, struggling against the monstrous strength of the creature that held her.

"Mistress wants to see you." The creature beside him said, her skin dusky in the soft light. "Now."

He was pushed forward, toward the southern wall of the cemetery, the relentless strength of the things holding him unmoved by anything he tried. A tomb stood open near the southern wall, steps going down into the darkness and he realised how the creatures had come to the graveyard with no noise to warn them last night. He ducked his head as the hands pushed him down, the woman who had once been Chevonne Martinique leading the way into the blackness of the tunnel that led under the wall and under the road.

It took him a few moments to realise that the tunnel was only shallow, steel reinforcing columns supporting both ceiling and road, as they came up through a trapdoor into the kitchen of the corner house. The room was empty, lit by a single bare lightbulb. He frowned as he looked at the black squares of the bare windows. Light should have been coming through those windows, it was past dawn, it must be. He looked down at his watch, and his eyes widened as he saw the time. Eleven-thirty. P.M. He looked around, getting a shove in the back from the creature behind him. How had they lost the entire day in the walk from the cemetery? It couldn't have taken more than five minutes to cross under the road. He got another hard push and put the thought aside for the time being.

Chevonne moved through into the hallway, walking with a stilted gait like a woman who'd lost the heel from her shoe. She turned at the staircase and started climbing, and Dean had a good view of her feet as she went up ahead of him, his stomach lurching as he saw that she was walking on one bare foot – and a bloody and dirt-encrusted stump.

On the landing, they turned left, into a wide double room that matched the double parlour downstairs. A four poster bed stood against the interior wall, facing tall French windows. Several chairs, chaise-longe and occasional tables were scattered throughout the rest of the room. On the far wall, a heavily carved armoire stood, with a gold-tinted mirror above it. Dean stopped as the hands held him still, looking around. Until she moved, he didn't see the tall, almost skeletally thin woman who stood beside the bed. When she moved, he wished he hadn't seen her.

Antoinette Chaigneau, also known as Marie Ramsey, had been attractive once. The bones of her face, clearly visible under the tightly stretched skin, were striking. Now though, her skin was rough, almost scaly in places, her hair had been reduced to a few thin clumps still clinging here and there to her skull, her eyes … her eyes were horrifying. The lids had almost disappeared showing the full roundness of the eyeballs. They were white, all the way across, the pupils so small in the centre as to be almost invisible. Dean looked away from her stare.

"So, you are hunters." The voice might once have been human, now it was a sibilant whisper. She smiled and her teeth were disappearing, only a few left in the front of her mouth, and those were longer, as if they were growing, or changing shape. "Weak, powerless mortals. I have the power here, in me, and it keeps on growing, getting stronger. He is coming back, this time he will rule, oh yea."

She looked away for a moment, and became still, the animation draining from her face and body. Dean looked at her, seeing the blankness on her face, and wondered what was happening to her.

A moment later, she turned back to them, her face living again, and raised her hands. He heard a gasp behind him and twisted around, seeing Annie rising from the floor. He looked back at the woman in front of him, whose arms were now fully outstretched, mouth wide open as a deep and atonal noise came from her throat. Far away he heard the beat of drums, a steady, primitive beat. The soulless creatures had backed away, moving to the edges of the room. He turned and saw that Annie was pinned against the ceiling, her eyes rolled back in her head.

A movement caught the corner of his eye and his head snapped down and around to look. From the vents, from under the doors and through the windows, snakes were writhing into the room. Harmless, huge mud snakes, brightly ringed milk snakes, banded water snakes, rattlers, cottonmouth, garter snakes, grass snakes and tree snakes, they slithered and slid across the polished parquet floor, converging on the voodoo queen in the middle of the room.

Dean backed away, freezing as a pink and rust patterned copperhead slid over his boot, brushing by his ankle on its way to its destination. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck, as more and more snakes entered the room, creating a living carpet over the floor surrounding Antoinette.

He looked around the room, at the motionless servants, the seething floor, the woman in the centre whose skin was bubbling as the snakes began to wind their way up around her legs and waist. Behind her, he saw the armoire and the gold mirror, his gaze brushing past then returning with a snap, his focus sharp as he recognised what the mirror was reflecting. On the top of the armoire a plain wooden box sat open, a faint and pulsing purple light shining out of it. In the mirror, tilted down as it hung by slender chains from the high picture rail, he could see the dried and withered looking bones inside the box. He felt for the salt and butane in his pockets, looking down at the still writhing floor with a grimace of distaste and took a long stride to the bed, feeling the snakes under his boots, and hearing their furious hissing, but through luck or magic, staying unbitten. He rolled over the bed and pulled the salt out as he slid up to the armoire, dumping half the pound bag into it and dropping it on the floor as he pulled the butane out. The sharp scent began to fill the room as he squirted the contents thoroughly. He looked back at the queen, saw that the snakes had reached her shoulders and pulled the Zippo from his jeans, flicking it open and lighting it. The butane made a quiet whoof as it lit, the flames at first the normal bright yellow, but turning to green and then blue and finally a deep violet as the bones began to burn and the wood of the box charred.

The scream was high and wild and he looked around to see Antoinette turning to him, her skin splitting apart over the bones as the snakes fell from her. He felt himself lifted into the air, helpless against the force holding him, then thrown the length of the room, tucking his head against his chest as he hit the wall on the other side with a force that drove the air from his lungs.

She was staggering in small circles, the snakes now moving in the opposite direction, leaving the room as more and more of her skin peeled from her bones, falling to the floor in chunks. Dean's chest heaved as he tried to suck in air, getting to his feet and looking up at Annie, who was rising and dipping against the ceiling as Antoinette's control slipped. He stumbled across the floor and got underneath her as she was released, catching her and falling backwards at the same time, scrabbling backwards across the floor to the thick plastered wall as the soulless creatures began to shake and tremble, and the voodoo queen, a skeleton now with only a few pieces of flesh still holding onto her bones, shrieked and burst into flame, as violet as the fire still burning in the box. Dean's eyes widened as behind her, he saw the outline of a huge snake, twisting and coiling, its hooded head staring at him, the purple flames reflected in the slitted vermillion eyes. The skeleton shimmered for a moment then flared into a corona of pale light, reaching out to every corner of the room, burning away the vision of the snake, the shadows in the room, chasing the last of the living snakes back under the doors and windowsills, through the vents.

He threw his arm over his eyes, closing them tightly against it, seeing the afterimage of the queen's skeleton outlined in fire against them.

The light died. The room was in darkness.

Lowering his arm cautiously, he opened an eye and looked around. The men and women who had had their souls taken were lying on the floor around the walls. The parquet floor was still, the snakes gone.

He sat up against the wall behind him, lifting Annie's shoulders and looking into her face. She looked back at him, her expression exhausted and she nodded slightly to tell him that she was alright. Rolling to his feet, he walked to the armoire at the other end of the double room.

The fire had burned everything, including the box, into ash. Beside the pile, two other boxes sat on the highly polished surface. He felt for the flashlight, and pulled it out, turning it on and playing the light over them. On the lid of one, an eye had been crudely carved into the wood. On the lid of the other, a circle. He lifted both lids together, unsure of why he felt it was important, just knowing that it was. From each of the boxes a zephyr of wind blew out, entwining and dissipating, surrounding him with a faint scent of flowers. He shut the lids and looked up at the mirror. The warm gold tint that he'd noticed on the first glance had gone. The angle of its reflection was no longer as acute anymore either.

He turned around and walked back to Annie, holding out his hand to her. She took it and let him pull her to her feet. He led her to the door, and switched on the light. The couple of bare bulbs didn't light the room much, but they both watched as the bodies of the soulless began to stir, rolling over and looking up. Chevonne Martinique looked over at them, her expression confused and afraid, her dark brown eyes filling with tears.

"What happened? Where am I?" Her voice was high and sweet, a young woman's voice again.

Dean looked at Annie. "We should get out of here."

"Yeah. I think so."

* * *

_**October 28, Gretna, Louisiana**_

Annie slowed down as she approached the black car, easing her vehicle to a stop behind it.

"What happened back there?" she asked the man sitting beside her, her expression screwing a little.

Dean shook his head. "I think you were right," he said, remembering the bones in the box. "I think Marie found something of power and she had no idea of what she was doing when she let it take her over."

"I saw – I thought I saw a snake," Annie told him uncertainly.

"Yeah, you did," he confirmed. "My dad'll kill me if I don't get the mythology right on this one but I've never seen anything like that before. You remember what she said about it?"

"Something about ruling?" she hazarded, not sure if that was a memory or a part of the hallucination that had overtaken her when she'd felt hands lifting her up to the ceiling.

He nodded. "Some kind of god, maybe?"

"Maybe," she said. "But you burned the bones and the box and it vanished?"

"It seemed to," he allowed, wondering if it'd really been that easy. "She was keeping the souls of those people. In boxes."

Split apart. He frowned, wondering how – or even if – that was possible. In his mind he saw the eye and the circle, on the lids of the boxes. He'd be able to find out what they meant.

"Did they give – it – power?" Annie asked.

"I don't think so," he said, not sure if it was true, but feeling it as a truth. "I think it was just to control them."

Dean got out of the compact and reached into the back seat for his bag. He shut the door and leaned on the window, looking at the woman behind the wheel.

"You alright?"

She smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Nightmares have gone, I think."

"Take care of yourself, Annie." He straightened up, stepping back from the car.

"You too, Dean. I'll see you around."

She put the car into drive and pulled away. Dean turned watched her go and turned to the black car behind him, unlocking it and tossing his bag onto the seat. He slid in after it, stretching out slightly as he pulled the door closed and slipped the key into the ignition, the engine rumble familiar and reassuring.

"About time." He smiled and pushed the tape into the deck, and _Nothing Else Matters_ rolled over him and through the car as he pulled out and headed for north and west.

* * *

_**October 30, Phoenix, Arizona**_

Dean pulled into the motel with a sigh of relief. He'd been driving for the last two days, not rushing it, going steadily but he was starting to get stiff from the constant time spent in the car. He'd make Jericho tomorrow. He parked outside the office and got a room, driving the Impala into the slot in front of the door, and hauling out his bags.

He stripped off and had a long, hot shower, trying to get the knots and stiffness out of his muscles, emerging fifteen minutes later with a feeling that he might have returned to mostly human. Crawling into the bed, he was asleep almost before his head had touched the pillow, the case, the drive, his thoughts dissolving into a peaceful darkness.

In the pocket of his coat, hung on the back of the chair next to the small table, his phone buzzed softly. He didn't hear it. There was a beep and then silence filled the room again.

* * *

_**October 31**_

He woke as the sunlight streamed through the thin curtains onto his face, groaning slightly and rolling away from it. He wasn't ready to wake up yet, just a few more minutes of sleep.

The airhorn of a rig on the highway blasted through his dreams a moment later, and he sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes as he looked at his watch. Seven thirty.

He got out of the bed and padded to the kitchenette, filling the filter with coffee and the pot with water and staring out the window into the parking lot as it bubbled through.

The last few days had taken on a haze in his mind, the city and it's old sections, the fear in the people. Had he really seen the snake behind Antoinette, trying to come through the woman? He hadn't been able to find any kind of reference to that sort of possession. He shook his head impatiently. It didn't matter. Whatever the significance of the bones he'd burned had been, it was over now. He still felt uneasy at the compulsion that had taken hold of him in the room, when he'd opened the other boxes. It had cut through the most basic tenets of his training. But it had seemed to work, the souls returned to those they'd be stolen from. And he hadn't been able to find anything about the symbols that had adorned the lids either.

He glanced at the pot, and took a cup from the tray on the counter, tipping the coffee into it.

It was finished, and that was all he really cared about, wasn't it? The memories of the tomb he and Annie had spent the night in were still there and he ducked his head as he pushed them aside, still close enough to stir him if he thought about it too long. Live and learn, he told himself, mouth quirking up to one side.

The soft beep from his jacket caught his attention and he walked to the chair, fishing around in the pockets of the coat and pulling out his phone. He looked at the screen, seeing the message notification from last night. Lifting the phone to his ear, he pressed the button and listened to his father's voice, breaking up and crackling.

"_Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger."_

* * *

_**October 31, 2005. Palo Alto.**_

Dean pulled into the kerb next to the building. He wasn't sure what he was doing. Wasn't sure it was the right thing to be doing. He'd been trying to call his father every hour since he'd left Phoenix, heading north. He was only getting voicemail. It wasn't so unusual. His father was tightly focussed when he was working, sometimes not getting around to checking messages for weeks. But the message he'd sent … that worried him.

He didn't want to be alone when he went to Jericho, he realised. He wanted backup. The only backup he could really trust. He wanted his brother.

* * *

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three._

_~ Author Unknown_

* * *

**END**


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